Ready for the Road
by LauraHuntORI
Summary: Happenings in a motorcar.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it. This story starts around the time of season 1, episode 5 (U.K. episode number).

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

"Milady," Branson remarked, "have you heard that the Massey-Harris Company is trying to produce a Reaper-Thresher with an inte—"

"What are you saying?" Lady Edith interrupted from the passenger seat, meaning_ 'Why are you speaking to me, when I haven't spoken to you?'_

The chauffeur, oblivious to the unspoken question, answered the audible one, though in a way his reply served as an answer to both. "I couldn't help overhearing the other day when you said to his lordship that—"

**_"What?!" _**

Fatally, at that moment the car's tires hit a patch of the road where the macadamized surface was unravelling. Branson was distracted by his actual business, so once again responded to Lady Edith's words, rather than her tone.

"I said, 'I couldn't help but overhear the other day when you said—'"

Lady Edith could not believe it. And he actually had the gall to _repeat_ it. _How DARE he? _"Pull over, Branson."

He glanced back to look at her, thinking he'd misheard. "What was that, milady?"

"So now you're deaf? Pull this motor off the road. Now!"

Startled, he obeyed, then again turned back to look at her over his shoulder. "What is it, milady?"

"Cut off the engine."

"But aren't we—"

"I shouldn't be having to repeat myself, Branson."

He faced forward again so he could cut off the engine.

This time when he started to turn back to her she stopped him. "No need to turn around. I have it on the best authority that you can hear what I say _perfectly_ from there while facing forward."

Lady Edith could see that Branson had at last figured out what the problem was. She couldn't see his face, but he must be blushing: his ears were red. Lady Edith shifted in her seat so she could see at least part of his face in the side mirror: what she could see of his cheek was indeed crimson, and his lips were slightly parted. His breath had quickened, but he knew better than to speak. Seeing it, Lady Edith strove to keep her voice mild. "Branson, I strongly recommend you expunge the word "overhear" from your vocabulary. We know that you can hear what we say in the motor, but it is never appropriate for you to remark upon the fact that you have heard anything. You must pretend you have not heard. That is your sacred trust as a chauffeur. The things you hear in the course of your duties are not conversational fodder.

"Anything I have said to my father, I have said to him, not to you. If I want to say something to you, I will address you directly. If I want information from you, I will ask you directly. Otherwise, you should not be speaking to me unless you have a legitimate business reason for doing so. We are not friends. You are a servant; I am your employer.

"I won't ask if you've heard me, since I know you have, but do you understand why I'm saying this?"

"Yes, milady." His voice was soft, but since he was still facing forward, she could not really tell how he was taking her reprimand. She decided to ask, as she had just stated she would. "Do you resent my having spoken to you in this way, Branson?" She watched his mouth in the mirror. He moistened his lips, then began, "I—" he stopped himself immediately, and said instead, "No, milady."

Lady Edith thought about letting that end the matter, but she wanted to be sure it really _was _ended. "I can see you want to say something else, Branson. What is it?" He did turn around to face her then. His gaze dipped down for a moment submissively, then he met her eyes. "I just wanted to say thank you, milady, for setting me straight."

Lady Edith thought at first he might be making fun of her, but as she studied the chauffeur's expression, equal parts mortification, gratitude, and respect, she realized he was serious. She nodded in acknowledgement. "Very well. We'll say no more about it, then. I think we're ready for the road. You may now start the motor and take us home."

Branson climbed down to crank the motor back to life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the encouragement, reviewers. I appreciate it so much.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

"Edith," Lord Grantham asked his middle daughter, "when you went to Thirsk the other day, was there any problem?"

"What do you mean, Papa?"

"I saw Cripps this afternoon, and he mentioned seeing the motor pulled over to the side of the road. He said he would have stopped to offer you help, but that when he got close to the car, he saw Branson get out and start it, so he figured everything was all right."

"Oh, yes, I remember. We did have a little problem, but it took only a few minutes to sort out, and then we were on our way again."

"What was the problem?"

Edith looked thoughtful. "I really couldn't say."

* * *

The dressing gong had sounded, but Lord Grantham wanted to finish the letter he was writing before going up to change. It took longer than he had thought it might, and as he was sealing it, he heard the soft snick of the latch on the bookcase-fronted "hidden" servant's door. The bookcase swung into the room as the door opened. Lord Grantham looked over at it and saw Branson, book in hand, enter the library. He caught sight of his employer and froze in surprise.

"I'm sorry, your lordship. I thought you'd have gone up to change." He started to leave.

"No, it's all right. I'm going in a minute. You can bring in your book."

Branson hesitated, thinking that Mr. Carson would not like this. He had been informed he was definitely not allowed in the library when any of the family was in there, especially his lordship.

Lord Grantham smiled at him. "I won't eat you."

"No, milord... but Mr. Carson might."

Lord Grantham laughed. "We won't tell him then. Come in."

Branson nodded, and moved to the ledger to sign the book back in, then went to restore it to its home on the shelf. He was almost back to the hidden door before Lord Grantham realized he was leaving.

"Wait!" Lord Grantham called.

The chauffeur stopped and turned back to his employer. "Yes, milord?"

"Don't tell me you don't want to borrow another book?"

"I shouldn't be bothering you, milord."

"I've already told you, you aren't bothering me. No need for you to wait and come back later... after all, some inconsiderate person might take it into his head to come into the library then as well, and then where would you be?" Lord Grantham teased.

Branson was speechless.

"Go and choose a book."

"Thank you, milord." Branson returned to the shelf where he had replaced the previous book, quickly selected another, then returned to the ledger to sign it out.

"Actually, I'm glad you've come in, Branson. I've been meaning to ask you something."

"Yes, milord?" The boy was looking at him attentively.

"Yes, Cripps tells me he saw you and Lady Edith pulled over to the side of the road the other day, and I wondered what had happened. Was there some problem with the motor?"

"No, milord," Branson fidgeted a bit with the new book. "There was no problem with the car."

"Then why were you pulled over?" Lord Grantham noted that Branson appeared to be blushing, and the boy definitely bit his lip.

"There must have been _some _reason," his lordship prodded gently.

Branson sighed. "We were pulled over, milord," he admitted reluctantly, "so I could give my full attention to the reprimand Lady Edith was administering."

Lord Grantham's eyebrows rose. "I see... That's rather curious. What was the reprimand for?"

The chauffeur eyed his employer. "For speaking out of turn, milord."

Lord Grantham tried hard to suppress his laughter and look stern instead, but his efforts were not successful.

"I'm surprised she didn't tell you," Branson said.

"Perhaps she thought she'd taken care of it."

"Perhaps," the boy agreed, his eyes now lowered.

"_Has_ she taken care of it?" his lordship asked, more sharply.

"She has, milord, most effectively," Branson nodded, a little grimly, his lordship thought.

"I see... and has anyone else... felt compelled to reprimand you?" Lord Grantham inquired.

"I can't pretend I haven't been told to hush now and again, your lordship, but no one's ever made me pull over before!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: **I originally intended this to be two chapters, but both are done, and perhaps it makes more sense for them to appear together. The two halves of this chapter bookend the garden party scenes in Season 1, episode 7. It may well be that for Lady Edith, as well as for her chauffeur, affairs of the heart can supersede even the declaration of war. ~ Our chapter commences about mid-way through the episode, after Edith has gone to get her coat so she can go for a spin with Sir Anthony Strallan.

**Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Lady Edith all but ran to get her coat, then hurried back to the outer hall. It was empty. Sybil, Carson, the telephone man, all were gone. Sir Anthony Strallan was gone. For a moment, she felt a piercing disappointment, how could he! Then she saw through the glass doors that the front door stood open. He must have gone outside to wait for her. She opened the glass doors and knew she was right: she heard voices outside. She stepped to the threshold to peer out. Was he talking to the telephone man? No, he wasn't.

Two cars were pulled up in the gravel drive: Sir Anthony's open Rolls Royce, and Downton's own Renault Landaulette. Sir Anthony stood engrossed in conversation with the uniformed Branson, both men talking, gesturing, and listening intently in turn, in their shared admiration of the huge silver car. Watching the two for a few moments, Lady Edith could only marvel. Their respective statuses of aristocrat and servant were obviously in abeyance; two drivers momentarily equalized in the male fraternity of the motorcar.

Lady Edith would have supposed nothing short of a bomb would have distracted them from their automotive discourse, but she found that wasn't true. As soon as her footsteps crunched in the gravel, their voices ceased in mid-sentence, if not mid-word. Sir Anthony was greeting her with a delighted smile, and Branson was already half-way back to the Renault, his face a proper blank servant's mask.

Seconds later, Lord Grantham emerged from the house.

"Going for a drive?" he asked his daughter.

"As you see, Papa."

"Have a nice time."

* * *

A day or two later, Lady Edith decided on an outing to the music store in Ripon. Sybil was not musical, and Mary, after their confrontation over her letter to the Turkish ambassador, would sooner accompany Lucifer to Hades. Which suited Edith's plans perfectly.

The trip was a success. She purchased sheet music for Bobby North's 'terrific hit' _He'd Have to Get Under-Get Out and Get Under (to Fix Up His_ _Automobile)_, and had high hopes for amusing the motor-mad Sir Anthony with it the next time he came to dine. Which reminded her: "Branson," she began, "I saw you talking to Sir Anthony the other day before he took me for a drive."

The chauffeur glanced back to eye her warily. He wondered how he was supposed to reply. She looked neither disapproving nor angry, but still, "Yes, milady, I was," he confirmed noncommittally.

Lady Edith laughed nervously. "I'm not going to scold you, Branson." The chauffeur relaxed visibly. "I just wondered what you thought of his car."

"It's a beautiful machine, milady."

"Is it very different to this car?" she asked.

"I'm not sure how to answer that, milady. In a certain sense, a car is a car, but it does have a lot of differences, yes. It has a much more powerful engine: 6 cylinders. 48 horsepower, Sir Anthony says."

"Imagine driving 48 horses at once!" she exclaimed.

Branson smiled back at her. "You probably know better than I do how different it is, milady, you've ridden it in. What was it like?" As he glanced back again to see her answer, she saw a flash of panic cross his face at the realization that he had asked _her _a question. "Milady, I'm so-"

She stopped him. "I started it, Branson, I asked you questions: that's your dispensation to question me."

Branson nodded, both relieved and, when Lady Edith said nothing else, sufficiently emboldened to prompt, "So how was it, milady?"

A grin like sunshine brightened her face. "It was wonderful!"

* * *

(View or recall the Garden Party at the end of the episode here.)

* * *

The day after the Garden Party, Lady Edith stayed in her room on the grounds she was ill. The following day she knew she had to get up or risk a visit from Dr. Clarkson. Since she did not want her true illness (a desire to avoid facing Mary's evilly mean triumph) to be diagnosed, she got up and ordered the motor so she could go "shopping."

Branson picked Lady Edith up in front of the house.

"Where to, milady?" he asked.

"Just drive," she said in a smothered way. Branson nodded, and they headed out. He drove for a quarter of an hour, then turned back to her, "Milady, where do you want to-" he saw that she was weeping. If her sobs made any sound, they were covered by the noise of the engine, but her face was a blotchy red and covered with tears. "Turn around and don't look at me again," she choked out. Branson nodded and faced forward. He continued to drive for a good half hour. He began to worry, because he still did not know where he was supposed to take her. When he had taken Sybil to Ripon for a "meeting" without knowing their destination, trouble had resulted. Branson did not want any further trouble. He acknowledged that he was afraid to speak to Lady Edith again. His other option was to disobey her. He looked back at her. Mercifully, her head was down, so she did not observe his flagrant insubordination, but her narrow body still shook with the force of her sobbing. Branson faced the road again, worried at his lower lip with nervous teeth, then took a deep breath and pulled over.

That got her attention. "Why have we stopped, Branson?" She was furious with him. Couldn't he let her cry in peace?

Branson had left the motor running, but had gotten down, and was opening the passenger door.

"What are you doing? Get back in the car!" She ordered.

The chauffeur was looking down and to the right, since she had forbidden him to look at her, but his right hand was raised to assist her in climbing down.

"This is very presumptuous of you. I'm not getting out," she insisted.

He would not look at her, but he would not be stopped from speaking his piece either. "With respect, milady, if you'd care to come up to the front seat, I think it's about time we see just how fast this motor can really go."

* * *

They flew. Lady Edith knew that Branson had been correct; Sir Anthony's Silver Ghost had a much more powerful engine and could easily have outpaced them, but the driver made all the difference, apparently. Sir Anthony was afraid to push his car to its top speed; Branson was not. He seemed to revel in it, in fact.

Once she was next to him on the driver's bench, and was holding on tight, the chauffeur's focus had shifted entirely to his business, which seemed to be a speed trial of some unknown sort. She didn't know if their speed was the maximum the car could attain, or only the maximum speed at which Branson could maintain control of it, but it was faster than she'd ever gone before.

The driver's bench was open to the elements, and the wind blew them about ferociously. Not only did it dry her tears, it scoured them off her cheeks, and left a ruddy glow and the exhilaration of speed in their place. Branson had no attention for anything but his driving, and Lady Edith was letting the wind blow her brain clean of all thought, all sadness, all disappointment. Neither spoke.

Lady Edith watched lush meadows pass, and stands of trees. She wondered where they were. The road was smooth and well maintained, but she saw no other cars, and they had passed no houses or villages. She put a hand on Branson's arm.

Branson slowed the motor and looked at his employer. "Better, milady?" he asked.

"Much," she agreed, smiling at him. She saw that he also seemed happier and more relaxed. It occurred to her to wonder if anything had happened to _him _at the Garden Party that he preferred to forget.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"We're still on the estate, milady." At her confused look, he explained, "this is a service road his lordship had built for deliveries. It isn't used for anything else. That's why we've seen no other cars."

Lady Edith considered his statement. She had wanted privacy and comfort, and he had given her both. She thought of how she had comforted Daisy, when Daisy told her about Kamal Pamuk. This must be what Grandmama meant when she talked about reciprocity between masters and servants.

"Thank you, Branson. I'm glad you're with us at Downton." She smiled at him sweetly, if a little sadly.

"I am, too, milady," he replied, with an expression that mirrored her own. "I am, too."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Events in this chapter take place between Season 1 and Season 2.

**Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

"Branson," Lady Edith asked one sunny afternoon. "Do you like to drive?"

_'Rather an odd question to pose to a chauffeur,'_ Branson thought, amused. "Yes, I like it, milady."

"I wish I could drive."

"Why don't you then?" he asked.

"Don't be absurd. Ladies don't drive."

"Of course they do, milady."

"Nonsense."

"'Maxwell-the ideal car for a Lady or Gentleman to drive'? They've been advertising in Autocar for years."

"Don't tell me you believe everything you read in advertisements, Branson?"

"No, milady," the chauffeur agreed easily. "Not everything."

* * *

The next time she needed to be driven somewhere alone, Branson seemed unusually excited. Unfortunately, Lady Edith was out of sorts (though perhaps not unusally) in equal measure.

"Milady," Branson asked, carefully. "If you've asked me directly about something in the past, is it... 'appropriate' for me to bring it up on a later occasion?" He glanced back at her hopefully.

"No, it isn't." Lady Edith replied, repressively.

Branson was more surprised by his disappointment than by her rebuff. Yet, surely she'd want to know. "But, milady—"

"Have I addressed you, Branson?"

"No, milady."

"Then don't 'but, milady' me. Hush."

Branson nodded in acknowledgement and hushed.

* * *

"How does one go about learning to drive?" Lady Edith asked out of the blue some months later. "Are there schools?"

"Yes, milady, there are driving schools, chauffeur schools..." the chauffeur ageed.

"I suppose it's only men who attend them," Lady Edith commented sourly.

"I'm afraid that's likely the case, milady."

"What other ways are there to learn?"

"You could have someone teach you."

"Hmm," she mused. _'But who? Not Sir Anthony, certainly.'_ She wondered why she still tormented herself with thoughts of him. "How did you learn to drive, Branson?"

"My brother taught me," he said, shortly. She failed to notice the brusqueness of his reply.

"I wish I had a brother," Lady Edith exclaimed.

Branson snorted. "It wasn't that pleasurable an experience, milady."

"What?!"

"Nothing, milady," Branson was shaking his head, amused by his own turn of thought.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, "but what I mean is that if I had a brother he could teach me to drive!"

"I could teach you to drive, milady."

They both listened to what he had just said. Branson braced himself to be told off. There was a long silence, then Lady Edith murmured, "How absurd."

* * *

One day, both Lady Mary and Lady Edith requested transportation at the same time. Since the destinations were in the same general area, it was decided that they would ride together.

Branson picked them up, as usual, out front.

Neither lady seemed happy, but both said good morning to him, and he returned their greetings in the approved manner.

There was no conversation on the six mile journey. The only sounds were those made by the motor.

Finally, Lady Edith spoke. "Branson, where are we going?"

"Lady Mary is going to Chalcholm Hall, and I'm to take you to Stour Park, milady."

"We're going to Chalcholm first?"

Branson replied in the affirmative.

"Jealous?" Lady Mary asked archly.

"No," Lady Edith riposted. "'Age before beauty' is the cardinal rule."

"In this case, it may be something of a Hobson's Choice," Lady Mary muttered.

Lady Edith waited until after they had dropped Lady Mary off and were halfway back down Chalcholm lane before she spoke.

"Well, Branson? Out with it!" she ordered.

The chauffeur grinned back at her. "You'll never guess, milady! His lordship called me up to the house and told me that—"

"So I'm right," Lady Edith cut him off.

_Uh-oh._ "Milady?"

"You deliberately dropped off Lady Mary first because you wanted to tell me something." It was a statement, not a question, so Branson didn't answer it.

"I'm not wrong, am I? Stour Park is closer to Downton than Chalcholm Hall?"

"You're not wrong, milady."

"And you wanted to tell me something?" she prompted mercilessly.

"Yes, milady."

"So you took it upon yourself to delay my arrival at Stour Park."

The chauffeur was silent.

_ Well, it hadn't been a question, after all._ She rephrased it: "Did you or did you not take it upon yourself—"

"I did, milady."

"Don't interrupt me again."

"No, milady."

Surprisingly, she began to repeat the question he'd interrupted. "Did you or did you not take it upon yourself to delay my arrival at Stour Park to suit your own convenience?"

Branson waited to make sure her question was complete.

"Answer me, Branson."

"Yes, milady, I did," he repeated.

"Why?"

"I thought you'd want to know that-"

Apparently, Lady Edith did not apply the prohibition against interrupting to herself. "If you had a legitimate reason connected with your duties which required you to address me, you would have done so in front of Lady Mary."

He was biting his lip.

Lady Edith sighed. "So you wanted to engage me in private conversation."

He said nothing.

"And naturally you supposed I would prefer spending my time conversing in the motor with a servant rather than visiting Lady Daphne at Stour Park."

Branson's reply was so soft, she almost didn't hear it over the sound of the engine. "Do you want me to pull over, milady?"

"I want you to remember your place!"

Branson had no idea what he could possibly say to appease her. They would be at Stour Park before she was done giving out.

"I understand from Lady Sybil that you're a Socialist and that you believe everyone is equal. She agrees with you. I am not Lady Sybil. But you can speak for yourself, Branson. Tell me, are we equal?"

Lady Edith waited for his answer for quite a long time without saying anything else. She didn't prompt him, nor demand a response. Possibly, she knew he was not capable of replying. He could not bring himself to lie to her, and could not fathom how to frame a truthful reply that wouldn't give exponentially more offense than he'd already given.

Halfway up the lane at Stour Park, his disciplinarian relented, if relenting was what it was. "You don't have to answer that right now, Branson. I want you to keep in mind, though, that should you ever again seek, let alone abuse your position to _arrange_ to initiate a private conversation with me, the very first item on the agenda for us to discuss will be whether we are equals."

Branson made no reply.

They had arrived at Stour Park. He climbed down and handed her out of the car. She stepped down. As she responded to Lady Daphne's greeting, Lady Edith saw out of the corner of her eye that Branson's face, whilst set in a perfectly correct expression of professional impassivity, bore the tracks of tears.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** The same night.

**Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

"Mr. Bates," Mr. Branson asked, glancing up momentarily from the newpaper to look at the valet, who sat next to him repairing some accoutrement of his lordship's dress at the long table in the servants' hall, "may I ask you a question?"

"You may ask," Mr. Bates agreed, curious.

Mr. Branson looked back down at the paper and spoke in a very low tone. "Have you ever been... told off by a member of the family?" He did not look at his friend, only at the newsprint.

Mr. Bates looked speculatively at the chauffeur's bowed head for a moment and didn't answer. The boy had asked what was, on its face, an extremely impertinent and improper question, and one of the things he liked most about Mr. Branson was his good manners. So why would the boy ask such a thing? Likely because he himself had just been told off by someone.

Having reached the conclusion that Mr. Branson's supposed 'question' actually offered information rather than seeking it, Mr. Bates replied, "Has someone told you off?"

Mr. Branson nodded, eyes still down on the paper. "What do I do?"

Mr. Bates considered. "Did you deserve to be told off?" he asked mildly.

The boy nodded miserably.

"Then think about what he said—"

"She," Mr. Branson corrected.

_'Well, that narrows it down,'_ Mr. Bates thought. "Think about what she said. Did she say what you were to do?"

Mr. Branson did move then: he put a hand up to his mouth for a moment and looked at Mr. Bates apologetically. "She said she wanted me to remember my place."

Mr. Bates stared at him, appalled. How on earth had the boy lasted this long in service? This wasn't his first place!

"And she asked me if I thought we were equals," Mr. Branson continued.

Mr. Bates perceived that Mr. Branson was seeking advice about a serious problem. "What reply did you give?"

"I didn't give one."

"And she left it at that?"

Mr. Branson nodded.

"Well, that's a relief," Mr. Bates said.

"She said I might have to answer it later."

Mr. Bates wondered who had told the boy off.

Anna joined them. Mr. Branson moved down a place so she could sit between the two men. Mr. Bates supposed that would be the end of the conversation, but Anna must have heard at least some of it from the door, because the first words out of her mouth were, "Was it Lady Mary who told you off or Lady Edith?"

"Lady Edith," Mr. Branson admitted willingly, in the hope that Anna would know how to help him.

She did. "Lady Edith is in an awkward situation. She isn't beautiful, she isn't an heiress, she isn't anyone's favourite. She_ is_ intelligent, but that is not a quality that is greatly prized in a young lady. She's no suitors, and things in general tend to go wrong for her. If she doesn't find a husband, she'll have no position, and she knows it.

"Servants exist to serve, and you need to serve her needs, not your own. If you've accepted service under her, if you are _her_ servant, then she is above you, and what she needs from you is respect and strong support. You need to help her keep her head above water. She is afraid, and it sharpens her tongue. She needs you to keep her safe.

"Now, do you know your place?"

"Yes. Thank you, Anna." Mr. Branson was profoundly grateful and looked it.

"Do you know how to answer the next time she asks if you're equals?"

"I'm her servant. She is above me, and she always has both my respect and my support."

"Good." Anna patted Mr. Branson's arm encouragingly. "She needs someone on her side." The maid rose and left them then, the two men watching her with admiration.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** The next day.

**Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

All morning Edith kept thinking, for some reason, about the kitchen maid Daisy.

The girl had been so upset when O'Brien brought her in. _'Tell me,'_ Edith had told the weeping girl, _'and I promise you'll feel better.'_ And it had worked. Talking had comforted the little servant girl. Edith did NOT think about another servant, who had not been comforted by talking.

She must have imagined it, anyway. He wouldn't have been that upset. He had seemed fine on the way home... Her thoughts moved on to someone who had needed comforting who was NOT a servant, and the buffeting of the wind when one rode in the front seat of the motor.

Edith's thoughts chased each other all morning: Daisy's relief and gratitude, and how Edith herself had turned the fruits of that gratitude to revenge. Revenge on Mary after she herself had been so stupid as to agree to Mary's 'challenge' on the subject of whether Mary could take Sir Anthony away from her; then Mary's own revenge at the garden party, Sir Anthony Stallan's distressed face as he fled, her own distress, the ferocious wind, then Daisy again. Over and over, like a two reeler at the cinema.

Edith ate her kedgeree, looked at the post, talked to Papa, to Sybil, all the while Daisy's relief, her own anger, Sir Anthony's and her own distress... to the music of the string quartet... The morning passed.

Luncheon arrived. Edith ate, but could not have said of what the meal consisted. At one point, she was sure she heard the word _Locksley,_ and looked around to find everyone looking away from her. Edith was afraid to ask for a repetition, in case it wasn't actually about Sir Anthony, or maybe in case it was. She put a forkful of food in her mouth. Talk at the table resumed.

In the afternoon, she gave up and walked down to the garage. The big doors were open. Both cars were inside, but she saw no people.

"Branson?" she called.

"Here, milady," he appeared, shrugging into his uniform jacket, from the little "office" alcove.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"If you'd been a maid with a message, milady, you'd have called out _'Mr.'_ Branson." As soon as the words were in the air between them, they averted their eyes simultaneously.

"Can you take me to the village, or do you need to finish that?" she gestured towards what he'd been working on, which looked for all the world like a piece of heavy cloth.

"I can take you, milady. I won't need that until tomorrow."

"What is it?" she asked.

"When it's done, it'll be a gasket. Right now it's still the skin of a salamander."

"What?!"

Branson laughed. "Sorry, milady. It's a piece of asbestos." He had buttoned his jacket. "I think we're ready for the road, milady."

The distance to the village was short, so Lady Edith knew there was no time to waste. They were barely past the house when Lady Edith asked, "What did you want to tell me yesterday?"

Branson blinked in surprise, then said, simply, "I've driven it."

Lady Edith had a vision of Sir Anthony's stricken face. "Driven what?" she asked.

"The Silver Ghost."

_ Sir Anthony. His car._ Lady Edith didn't know if she actually wanted to hear this. She had loved the drives they had taken. She would never drive with him again. She replied, "How on earth did you manage that?"

Branson glanced back at her. "Sir Anthony sent a message to his lordship asking to "borrow" me, because-"

"But Sir Anthony loves to drive himself!"

Branson waited out her interruption, careful not to interrupt her back. "He does, yes," he agreed. "He asked to borrow me as mechanic, because the man who'd been looking after the car is now in the army. Sir Anthony suspected something was wrong with it. Naturally, I had to drive it to be able to tell."

"Naturally," she agreed, amused. "And was something wrong?"

"Yes. That's what I was making the gasket for. It blew one. I'm to go back over to Locksley tomorrow."

"How is Sir Anthony?" Lady Edith asked, uneasily.

"He's going, too, milady."

"Going?"

"To the front."

They had arrived in the village. Lady Edith directed him to a shop at random for her pretexted errand. He looked at the shop. "_Here_, milady?"

She was irritated. "Yes, here."

He stopped the car without further comment. She told him to leave the motor running, that she wouldn't be long.

_ 'I would hope not,'_ he thought.

She emerged a few minutes later empty-handed.

Branson put his book away when he saw that she had emerged from the shop and climbed down to assist her. "Didn't you find what you needed, milady?"

"I think I did, actually." She did not explain what it was she had needed, nor what invisible thing she might have found. "Let's go home, Branson."

_'What could she possibly have needed to do at the farrier's shop?'_ Branson wondered as he handed her in. He wanted to ask very badly, but didn't dare, since he really didn't care to have his hair parted with a three legged stool two days running.

"How was it to drive Sir Anthony's car, Branson?"

"Very easy to handle, milady. And the engine's remarkably quiet."

Lady Edith sighed. "Do a good job for him with that gasket-thing tomorrow, will you?"

"Of course, milady."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** It is now 1915.

** Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

In the midst of war, they were in peace. Branson, for his part, made sure he always took Lady Edith to her destination via the most direct route, didn't interrupt her, and didn't speak unless she initiated conversation with him. Lady Edith, for her part, undertook (in general) to make sure she did initiate conversation, whenever they happened to be in the motor alone.

Every so often, Lady Edith's own concerns occupied her to the extent that she forgot to address him. On those occasions, the chauffeur kept quiet, no matter what chanced to be in his budget of shop-talk and gossip under the heading Lady Edith Would Probably be Interested in This.

Once, when the latter happened, as Branson was handing her out of the car in front of the house, Lady Edith said, "I'm sorry, Branson, I haven't said a word to you this whole trip." The chauffeur allowed his deadpan expression to soften into the faintest of pleased smiles. "Perhaps next time, milady," he murmured.

* * *

What Lady Edith did not understand was why Branson did not enlist. She hinted as broadly as she dared, but was not comfortable asking him about it directly.

What Branson did not understand was why Lady Edith didn't learn to drive. She was fascinated by cars. Most of what they said to each other involved motoring in general and in particular. He hinted as broadly as he dared, but was not comfortable asking her about it directly.

They ignored each other's hints. Lady Edith left the British Army to do its own recruiting. Branson was more proactive. He decided to consult the oracle.

* * *

"Anna," he began one evening, looking up from his newspaper in order to address her where she sat several places up the table, "Why would a person choose not to do something she wants to do very much?"

The look she returned down the table was strongly reminiscent of the beatific smile his mother wore when calling down the blessings of St. Telemachus (patron of idiots) on her igit child. "Mr. Branson, we all do that every day."

He ducked his head slightly, smiling in acknowledgement of the truth of her statement.

"Perhaps you could speak more plainly," the housemaid suggested.

"Do you think Lady Edith would like to learn to drive?"

"She'd love it," Anna confirmed.

"So why doesn't she?"

"Maybe she thinks it isn't possible."

"Of course it is. I offered to teach her."

Anna raised an eyebrow at that. "What did she say?"

"She said, 'How absurd.'"

"So why are you still thinking about it?"

"Why is she still thinking about it?"

"Is she?"

"She still talks about how wonderful it must be to drive."

"Perhaps it's her dream," Anna suggested.

"So why not make it a reality?"

"Do you have any dreams, Mr. Branson?"

"Many."

"Why don't you make them a reality?"

He laughed. "But Anna, motoring needn't be a dream to Lady Edith."

"Trying to make a dream into a reality can destroy it."

"How's that?"

"Mr. Branson, did you ever dream about eating?"

The chauffeur nodded.

"You could see the food, smell it, your mouth watered thinking about how good it would taste?"

"Yes, I've had dreams like that."

"How did the food taste?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I've always woken up just as I'm taking the first bite." The two smiled at each other in understanding, but Mr. Branson continued, "Driving is no dream, Anna. I do it every day."

"You're a chauffeur. Driving is your job. Lady Edith's job is to be driven, to dress well, to pay calls, to get married. If she married a man who liked driving, perhaps she could ask him to arrange for her to drive."

"Why not just ask his lordship?"

"Mr. Branson, do you have any special dream? One you think is impossible?"

"Yes," he said, thinking of Lady Sybil's gloved hand in his the day of the garden party, when he'd delivered Mr. Bromidge's message for Gwen.

"Suppose your dream were within Lord Grantham's gift. Would you ask him for it?"

For a split second, the chauffeur looked horrified. His expression changed to one of understanding. "No, I wouldn't ask his lordship."

"Why not?" Anna asked.

_'Be careful, my lad, or you'll end up with no job and a broken heart.'_ Mrs. Hughes voice said again in his head.

Aloud, Mr. Branson said, "Because he'd say no."

"Well," Anna said, "perhaps Lady Edith also thinks the answer would be no. Sometimes it's nicer to keep dreaming than ask and be denied."

He thought about that. "Maybe the answer would be yes."

"Neither of you will know until you ask."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** Quite a long gap between Season 1 and Season 2, wasn't there?

**Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

In the end, for Lady Edith even to begin to believe that her dreams of driving might become a reality required an Act of Parliament. When the Military Service Act of 1916 came into effect in March 1916, for the first time men who had not enlisted were forced into the army. While men from the estate as well as the village had been enlisting since the start of the war, once all single men 18 - 41 were subject to be called to serve, things really began to change. By May 1916 the act was amended to allow the call to extend to some married men as well. With the men leaving, women had to take their places. Women were running farms, delivering mail and telegrams, they were wearing trousers, and they were driving. Accordingly, Lady Edith began to moot the idea that she should be taught to drive. At first, Lord Grantham dismissed the idea, but as more and more women were seen driving and doing other men's work, it began to seem more reasonable.

* * *

Meanwhile, something affected Tom Branson's dreams in May 1916 as well.

Anna waited impatiently at long table in the servant's hall. Finally, Mr. Bates arrived from upstairs.

"Thank God you've come," she greeted the valet.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I don't know that yet," the head housemaid admitted. At Mr. Bates' look, she continued, "Do you see Mr. Branson at this table?"

"No. Is the Dowager not dining here tonight?"

"She's been in the drawing room this half hour."

"Did Mr. Pratt bring her?" Mr. Bates was looking at the newspaper lying folded on the table.

"No, Mr. Branson did."

Mr. Bates picked up the paper. Someone had spilled something on it: there were grayish-black spots where the ink had mixed with drops of liquid, then dried. "So where is he?"

"He said he'd been in the yard."

Mr Bates evinced surprise. "Did he go out there to talk to someone?"

"No."

"Then why would he go outside?"

"I think something must be wrong with him."

The two went outside to check on their friend.

As Mr. Bates opened the door to the courtyard, Anna heard a strange sound. She glanced at Mr. Bates to see if he heard it. He did.

"What is tha-" she began, but the valet put a finger to his lips for silence. In any event, the eerie wailing had stopped in the noise of the door opening.

The yard was shrouded in darkness. "Mr. Branson?" Mr. Bates called softly.

"I'm here," the chauffeur's voice came unsteadily from the darkness in the direction of the battered old trestle table. No one else was outside.

"Are you all right?" Anna asked.

"I don't think so."

Anna and Mr. Bates sat down with him and waited for him to speak. When he didn't, Anna said, "Can you tell us what's wrong?"

Mr. Branson shook his head.

Mr. Bates thought at first that the chauffeur meant he did not want them to know what was wrong, but the boy was pulling something out of his pocket. He handed a folded square of paper to the valet, who was seated next to him.

Mr. Bates perused the missive in silence, then handed it to Anna. It was a letter was from Mr. Branson's mother, dated from Dublin, 25 April 1916.

'Dear Tom,' the letter began, 'I have no idea when you'll receive this, as they've stopped the mails, but I couldn't delay telling you...' Mr. Branson's cousin had been killed.

_That last night at his cousins', after the farewell dinner was over, instead of everyone trouping outside to see him on his way down the street, only one of the young men accompanied Tom out the door, the others having decided the two should be allowed a final private moment alone. _

_"Tom," his cousin had said, "In case we don't see each other again—"_

_"We will, a dheartháir," Tom interrupted. _

_ His cousin put two fingers on Tom's lips to stop him from speaking. "Is binn béal ina thost,_ _a dhlúthchara. I need to say this." He removed his hand, and Tom stayed silent. _

_"I know I told you I didn't want you to go. I was wrong. Ireland needs good men, and will need good men, but you need to do what's right for you. Sometimes I forget that." The young man smiled. "I know this is right for you, but I will miss you so much." _

_They embraced. Tom, his head snugly against his cousin's shoulder, whispered, "And I'll miss you."_

Mr. Branson was brought back to the present by the pressure of Anna's had on his. She was telling him she was sorry. She looked sorry.

Mr. Bates' was touching him as well, a comforting hand on Mr. Branson's shoulder. "I'm very sorry for your trouble," the valet said. Mr. Bates thought about his Irish mother, whom his boy reminded him of in many ways, and what would comfort her. "Will you tell us about your cousin?" Mr. Bates suggested.

Mr. Branson said nothing for a moment, then began, "He was _a good man_." From previous conversations with the chauffeur, both Mr. Bates and Anna were aware that the phrase "a good man" constituted the highest accolade  
in Mr. Branson's vocabulary.

The chauffeur's friends listened to his remembrances of his cousin, their boyhood escapades, their similarities, their differences, their closeness, his cousin's interest in the Gaelic Revival and all things Irish, as opposed to Branson's own focus on equality of all people, all nationalities... and the way his cousin could talk him round whenever  
Mr. Branson happened to "get maggots in his head." The boy chuckled when saying this last, at which Mr. Bates opined that it must be nearly time for dinner, so the three went back inside.

It was not quite time for their dinner, so Mr. Branson resumed his newspaper, while Mr. Bates disappeared for a few minutes. Anna saw Mr. Branson's slender fingers investigating one of the dried inkblots, but no more were added to them.

The servants assembled for their dinner, but mere minutes after the first of the usual two courses was served, the Dowager rang for the car.

It was an occupational hazard. Mr. Branson rose immediately and shrugged himself back into his coat.

"Come back after," Mr. Carson invited. "Mrs. Patmore will keep it in the warmer."

Mr. Branson nodded and left the room.

When the chauffeur returned to the servants' hall, the others had finished their meal, but many of them were still at the table, relaxing, drinking cocoa or tea, and singing along to the songs William played, a surprising number of which had Irish themes, so he had lots of company while he ate.

When Mr. Branson had finished eating, William struck up a new number, vamping for a good dozen bars, before beginning: "Johnny O'Connor bought an automobile. He took his sweetheart for a ride..."

Mr. Branson laughed and came over to the piano. "Where did you get that?"

"Lady Edith gave it to me, she said she thought it might be popular down here." William continued the accompaniment under their conversation, and Mr. Branson picked up the words at the chorus: "He'd have to get under, get out and get under, to fix his little machine..." Anna, Bates, and Carson traded satisfied glances as the others crowded around the piano, singing of the poor automobile driver who was interrupted repeatedly in his courtship by the need to make mechanical repairs... "...get out and get under, and fix up his automobile."

The impromptu concert lasted until Mr. Carson saw Mr. Branson yawning repeatedly, at which he reminded the assembled company that it was long past time for bed. Yet even then, when William said he'd like to "stretch his legs a bit" before retiring, Mr. Carson made no objection, and the footman followed Mr. Branson out the door.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **The waiting is over. You knew they had to get there sometime.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Lord Grantham had sent word that he wished to see Branson in the library. When the chauffeur appeared, his lordship explained that Lady Edith wished to learn to drive the motor. "Do you foresee any obstacles which might prevent it?" he asked.

"No, your lordship."

"Would you be willing to teach her?"

"Certainly, milord."

"Well," Lord Grantham said. "I'll leave it in your capable hands."

* * *

Branson exited the library through the regular door into the hall, since he had been officially summoned to the library, rather than there to borrow a book.

Lady Edith was waiting in the hall. "Well?"

Branson nodded.

"When do we start?"

Branson considered. "Would _now _be convenient, milady?"

Lady Edith's smile said it all. "I'll get my coat."

"I'll get the car."

* * *

Branson fetched the motor but killed the engine once it was in front of the house. Lady Edith joined him within minutes.

"How do we start, Branson?"

"We start... with starting the motor."

"By cranking it," supplied the eager student.

"Correct, milady. You crank the starting handle, which turns the crankshaft, which moves the pistons in the engine. The sparking-plugs ignite the fuel, which keeps the engine running so you can get in and drive."

"Of course," she said, giving him a lopsided grin. "Let's do it."

The lady and the chauffeur got in the car, this time with the lady behind the wheel, and the chauffeur on the front bench next to her.

"Before we crank it, the engine will need some fuel for the sparking-plugs to ignite."

Lady Edith nodded. Branson's leather-clad black finger pointed to a knob. "That's the choke, milady. If you could pull it out." She grasped the knob and pulled it.

"Now if you could step on the accelerator pedal a few times-good. Now the engine has some petrol... Before we get out, it is VERY IMPORTANT that the brake be on. Otherwise we'll be run over."

"How embarrassing," Lady Edith chortled. She engaged the brake.

"Gear should be in neutral. All right. If you'd just switch on the ignition, milady."

The two climbed down. Branson showed her where the starting handle was kept, and they walked to the front of the car. The chauffeur squatted down to show her the slot it had to go into. She put in it. Branson made sure the end of the handle was on the end of the crankshaft. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Lady Edith had wrapped her hand around the handle and was going to crank it.

Branson sprang, yelling, "**_Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, milady!_** Do you want to lose your thumb?!"

The two young people found themselves seated on the gravel drive, the starting handle lying next to them. Both were breathing heavily. Branson recovered first. "I am so sorry, milady."

Lady Edith looked at him in shock, remembering the split second look of pure terror in his eyes, and the pain in her wrist as he ripped her hand off the crank. "What was wrong?"

"Um, you can't wrap your hand around the handle that way, milady. Your thumb has to stay on the same side as your fingers if you expect to keep it. Once the fuel ignites and the motor is running on its own, the crank is going to keep moving as well. It could break your arm."

Lady Edith thought about where he had been squatting. "It would have hit you in the face, as well, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, milady."

"Well, I'd say we didn't exactly hit the bullseye with our first arrow. Let's 'try, try again' shall we?"

He helped her up, and they brushed themselves off. He picked up the starting handle and handed it to her. She connected it to the crankshaft this time. She took the handle in her palm, carefully keeping her thumb and fingers together on the right side. "Am I doing it right?"

"Yes, milady."

"Here we go." Nothing happened. She tried again. Nothing. She couldn't move the handle. Not at all. She continued to try to move it for a full minute, then she started laughing.

"Milady?"

Lady Edith looked over at the chauffeur. "There was no need to attack me, Branson. I can't budge this thing to save my life." She tugged at the handle. "You were perfectly safe."

They looked at each other for a moment, wordlessly, then Lady Edith let go of the starting handle and made a gesture towards it instead. "It's all yours, teacher."

Branson wrapped his own fingers and thumb around the right side of the handle, and cranked the engine to life. They climbed back up into the front seat, with Lady Edith at last behind the wheel.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: **The lessons continue.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Except for her continued inability to start the car, Lady Edith's driving lessons were going well. She had no trouble learning to use the steering wheel. In first gear, she was able to direct the car around the gravel drive which circled the house. She could back the car up extraordinarily well according to Branson, who was so pleased by this particular accomplishment that he showed her how to park the car in the garage and take it out again, and gave her an impromptu tour of the garage and its equipment.

"You'll make an excellent chauffeur, milady," he praised her exuberantly.

"As soon as I learn to actually start the car?" she quipped.

His smile faded. "You know how, milady," he reminded her quietly.

"I just can't do it."

"You will, milady."

"When?"

"Soon," he promised.

* * *

Branson did not know how he was going to deliver on this promise. Certainly, her persistent inability to start the car troubled him as well. For one thing, he wasn't sure whether the problem was a lack of physical strength, or just an understandable aversion to being jumped on again by a nervous instructor. Either way, she needed to get past it. If she couldn't start the car, she couldn't drive it, it was as simple as that.

Could she really be so weak that she actually couldn't turn the starting handle? He found it hard to believe. Had Lady Edith been a man, he would have taken her to the pub and challenged her to arm wrestle, so as to get an idea of her muscular strength. He pictured Lady Edith in the Grantham Arms, arm wrestling with a pint before her. He'd never get away with it. Not even if he proposed to arm wrestle in privacy in the garage. Branson was certain Anna or Daisy would be able to crank the starting handle. Probably Lady Sybil could as well.

Branson was worried about Lady Sybil. She would barely speak to him anymore, and seemed very down. He had been glad to find himself ordered to take her to Malton on some errand so he could check on her, only to find her even more morose and uncommunicative than ever. He wondered if she had ever arm wrestled with Lady Edith.

It couldn't hurt to ask."Milady, have you and Lady Edith ever—" he stopped, because she had made a funny sound. Branson glanced back at her. "Is something wrong, milady?"

"David Varney's been killed," she said baldly. She did not explain who David Varney was.

Branson wondered about that, but said, "I'm very sorry for you're loss, milady…" then, as required by convention in his circles, he said, "Will you tell me about him, milady?"

"I'm sorry, Branson, I really don't feel like chatting today."

Branson nodded and kept quiet. He did not understand English grief. How could they keep everything bottled up? How did they bear it?

Branson put the matter aside, as he had put aside the matter of Lady Edith's inability to turn the crank, since there was nothing he could do about either one.

* * *

For their next lesson, Branson and Lady Edith moved on to shifting. "You may have noticed, milady," the chauffeur said pedantically, "that we haven't been going very fast."

"I have noticed that," the lady agreed, eyes shining at the prospect of Speed.

"So we need to learn to shift.

"This car has three speeds, and each has its own gear. When we reach the top velocity in one gear, we go up to the next. To do that, we need to separate the drive components by pushing in the clutch." He showed it to her. "Then we shift the transmission into neutral and de-clutch, that is, let up on the clutch so it disengages. When the engine revolutions match the revolutions of the gear, we push in the clutch again, shift into the new gear, and de-clutch to bring the drive components back together."

"All right," she said. "Let's do it."

They got in the car. Lady Edith pulled out the choke, gave it some gas, made sure it was in neutral, set the handbrake, and got out to crank. Branson watched her from the driver's bench.

"Branson!" Lady Edith yelled. "It moved!" He got out of the car to look. She tried again, and moved the handle about an inch, no more. She tried a few more times, and got a few more inches. This was not going to fire the pistons, but it was an improvement, so they smiled at each other as she gestured for him to do it. He did, and they got in the motor.

They drove down one of the service roads to build up speed to shift. Branson watched the tachometer, then tapped it to get Lady Edith's attention when it was time to shift. She pushed the clutch in, moved the stick to neutral, and de-clutched. They watched the revolutions drop.

"Now, milady."

Lady Edith pushed the clutch back in, went to the next gear, and de-clutched.

"Excellent, milady." They tooled along the drive awhile, enjoying their greater speed.

Finally, Branson said, "Why don't we try coming back down, milady? If you'd just push the clutch down until it engages."

Lady Edith pushed in the clutch, but apparently not enough. The gears ground together in protest, startling her. She thought she had gotten into neutral, but as she started to de-clutch, the engine sputtered and died.

"Oh, my goodness," Lady Edith exclaimed. "I haven't broken it, have I?"

"No, milady. You've killed it."

Lady Edith's gaze shot to the chauffeur. He was trying not to laugh.

"That isn't funny, Branson."

"Are you sure, milady?"

She tsked at him in mock disapproval. "What do we do about it?"

"More cranking, I'm afraid, milady."

"More cranking," she muttered. They got down to restart the car. Once again, it took both of them to manage it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **We're not quite to the start of Season 2 yet.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

They weren't practicing enough. Branson knew it, but said nothing, and let Lady Edith take the lead in scheduling their lessons, both because the garage was busy (he was getting by default all the repair work of any department whose usual mechanics had been lost to the army) and because he found the lessons… tiring.

On this particular day, Lady Edith and her chauffeur had set aside an hour in their respective busy schedules to further Lady Edith's career as a motorist. It was the first time in three days they had chosen to spare the time. Things were not exactly going well. Lady Edith managed to move the starting handle further than usual, but was still not exceeding about 60 degrees of a circle. Her irritation at this failure was apparently directly proportional to the distance she could move the handle, so it was likewise greater than usual. Time was passing in their allotted hour, however, so she finally let Branson start the motor, and they took off.

They did not get far, because the engine died at the first shift. Branson's eyes widened at the ladylike imprecation Lady Edith uttered while setting the handbrake, preparatory to climbing down to make yet another futile attempt at starting the motor. Branson climbed down with her, and this tacit evidence of his assumption that she would fail again aggravated her already foul temper_._ _Couldn't he at least wait for her to fail before rescuing her? _To give her credit, Lady Edith did make four or five attempts before giving up and getting back in the motor.

Branson grasped the handle, fingers and thumb on one side, and cranked it smartly. The pistons fired, the fuel ignited, and the motor was running again. The chauffeur climbed back in, and they proceeded on their way.

Mercifully, the next few shifts were successful, and Lady Edith's ire began to diminish. They enjoyed the breeze, and the scenery. It was a beautiful day, Branson noticed. At the next shift, their luck died with the sputtering engine.

Lady Edith set the handbrake, but didn't move. Branson looked at her inquiringly.

"You go," she ordered flatly, still facing forward. "You know I won't be able to start it." The disgust in the sharp voice was palpable.

It was the first thing she'd ever said that made him angry. He glared at her, but she wasn't looking at him, she was looking forwards at the road. He didn't move. He didn't speak.

"Come on, Branson, we haven't got all day." Her tone dripped contempt.

The chauffeur flung himself down to the ground and fetched the starting handle. He was her servant, he reminded himself, he had no right to be angry with her… but _he _wasn't the one who needed to learn.

Lady Edith's disgust and contempt were not directed at the chauffeur, but at herself. She had been a fool to think she would be able to drive. She was a woman, and weak, and she would never be able to start the motor. She was wasting his time. She was wasting her own.

The motor was running again. Branson got in the car. Lady Edith drove in silence. When it was time to shift, they heard both heard the ominous sputter.

"Pop the clutch, milady," Branson ordered. His gloved hand was over hers on the gear shift, and he was forcing it into the next gear. "Take your foot off the clutch!" It didn't work. The engine was dead. "What do you care?" he muttered. "It's not you who'll have to start it." He started to swing himself off the bench.

Lady Edith's voice stopped him."Stop! I'll do it. Heaven forfend you should have to get down." The venom in the sharp tones worked like an antidote on his anger. He shouldn't have said what he did. It wasn't her fault, she was still learning, it was difficult, and he knew how badly she wanted to be able to start the motor.

Lady Edith glared at him through the windshield and gave a mighty yank on the starting handle. It turned. The engine roared to life. She looked at starting handle foolishly, then grabbed it and put it away. She swung herself up to the seat in triumph. "I did it, Branson!"

"That's wonderful, milady." He grinned at her. "Maybe I should always mouth off when there's a problem."

"Oh, I doubt that will be necessary," she disagreed airily. "I think I can keep the image of an impudent chauffeur pretty well in mind for future attempts."

"It that right, milady?" Branson teased. "Prove it." He reached over and switched off the ignition. The engine stopped.

Lady Edith could not believe it. She turned her head and stared at him in total silence. Branson waited for the thunder he had called down, but none came. She climbed down and took out the starting handle. She walked to the front of the car. Branson began to pray she'd be able to restart it, because he knew instinctively that if she couldn't, her alternate method of proving her muscular strength was going to be to beat him to death with the starting handle. His only defense was that Kiaran would certainly have done it to him had he made such a boast when learning, but he did not think that explanation would move her.

The look Lady Edith shot through the windshield this time before putting her hand on the crank was one Branson sincerely hoped he would never see again.

Then it happened. He saw her turn the crank, and heard the car start for her a second time. He put a hand up to his mouth and sighed in relief. "Salve Regina," he thought.

Lady Edith put away the starting handle and climbed into the driver's seat. She said, very quietly," Branson, if you touch that ignition switch, I will never speak to you again."

He nodded.

Lady Edith faced the road, not the chauffeur, but continued to speak quietly. "Couldn't you have let me drive for one second the very first time I started the motor?" She turned and faced him, her expression more hurt even than angry. "How could you do something so mean?" When he failed to answer, she continued, more loudly, anger winning out, "You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"I am ashamed, milady. It was stupid, thoughtless, and cruel. I am most heartily sorry for it, and I richly deserve everything you're going to say to me, but, milady, you did it. You started the car! Twice! Isn't that something to be overjoyed about?"

As Lady Edith took in what he was saying, her chauffeur was privileged to witness a truly amazing transformation. From hurt, angry feelings, Lady Edith's expression changed to one of total satisfaction, pleasure, and joy. She could start the motor; she could drive. Her smile was more radiant than the sunlight.

Lady Edith put the car in gear, then smiled teasingly at him. "You can't fool me, Branson. You just want to save yourself from a scolding."

Branson let out a breath of relief. Yes, teaching Lady Edith to drive was rewarding, but it wasn't exactly restful.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **This chapter commences near the beginning of Season 2, episode 1, during the morning of the day of the Hospital Benefit Concert, after the driving lesson depicted therein, but before the scene in the servants' hall in which the new housemaid Ethel asks Mrs. Patmore to "save her" some Crepes Suzette.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Now that Lady Edith could reliably start the car, her interest in the project had once again increased, hence the driving lesson on a day in which she was also running around with last minute concert preparations. Branson was tentatively pleased with her progress, but her clutching and de-clutching set his teeth on edge, and he wished she would not talk about the call up the way she had.

Branson did not want, nor did he intend EVER to fight for the British Army. Of course, he could just give notice and go home: Ireland was specifically excluded from conscription, however, that would mean leaving Downton, which he also didn't want to do.

Branson had never been happier, nor even remotely as well suited in a position as he was here, and despite the good and sufficient reasons his mother had for frequently thinking and calling him a fool (the sole and only word of gaeilge she possessed was _amadán _which she had learned in his honor), he was yet wise enough to follow the advice of Voltaire (_'if you are pretty happy somewhere, you'd better stay there'_).

Having effectively shoved the draft problem out of his mind, Branson returned to the clutch problem. He supposed he should not have told Lady Edith to put the clutch all the way down to the floor. Repeatedly stomping on the clutch would damage it. Unfortunately, she didn't always engage the clutch fully either, which could damage the gears.

Another problem (while he was reviewing them) was the way he was speaking to her. It was ridiculous to be constantly using conditionals: _'If you could get the clutch right down to the floor, milady, then I'll only have to replace the clutch, instead of having to replace the entire gearbox when you eventually leave it lying on the road.' _A less polite command form would be better for teaching: _'The clutch isn't yet fully engaged, milady, press it down further until the gear is released.'_ It sounded good to him, until he recalled her saying that she thought she could keep the image of an 'impudent' chauffeur pretty well in mind, not to speak of 'I want you to remember your place!'_ 'You're her servant,'_ he reminded himself. Branson sighed, and shoved this problem out of his mind for the moment as well.

Branson had just picked up the newspaper in the servants' hall, when Mr. Carson came in to say his lordship wanted a word with the chauffeur in the library, concert preparations for that room having ended and restored the room temporarily to its principal tenant's use. Branson went up to find his lordship writing something at the desk, and waited politely for him to finish.

"Ah, Branson." His lordship finally greeted him. "I wanted to ask how the driving lessons are going."

"Very well, your lordship."

"Lady Edith is very eager to start driving on her own. Do you think she's ready?"

Speaking of people who didn't fully clutch or de-clutch, Branson had opened his mouth and instinctively responded, "No!" before his brain was in gear.

Lord Grantham did not actually snort with laughter, but he came close. "Succinctly and forcefully put." His lordship pursed his lips in amusement. "Yet, the lessons are going 'very well'?" he inquired.

Branson thought. "Let me put it this way, milord. If Lady Edith were to undertake to drive you to Ripon, say, she could get you there, and you'd eventually get back, but she'd probably have to get out and restart the car five or six times along the way… so, would you offer her the position of chauffeur just now?"

"No."

"Nor would I, milord."

"But you think she's coming along?"

"Yes, milord. I'd say in a few more weeks, with practice, she'll be ready for the road."

"Good to hear. Thank you, Branson. That's all."

Branson nodded and left the room.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** The next morning.

** Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

When Lady Edith entered the garage, she heard the sounds of a machine. Not one of the motorcars, but the emery wheel. Branson stood in front of it, working the footpump that ran it, and doing something she couldn't see. The grinding of sand or stone or whatever it was on metal was louder than her footsteps; the chauffeur continued his task, whatever it was, unaware of her presence. Lady Edith waited impatiently, staring a hole in the young man's back, right through the beige coverall that protected his uniform from metal shavings, grease, dust, and oil. Branson finally stopped the machine, and held something up to the light, checking its size with a sort of L-shaped metal ruler. He frowned at the thing, and made as if to go back to the grinder, but Lady Edith stopped him. "Branson," she said.

The chauffeur jumped a little and looked over towards where her voice had come from, startled. "I'm sorry, milady. I didn't hear you come in."

She sighed. "I know. I need to talk to you."

"Of course, milady." He walked closer. "Do you need to change your lesson time?"

"No, I need to talk to you," she repeated.

Branson waited, but she said nothing else. "I'm listening, milady," he prompted, gently.

Lady Edith looked around. They were in the "repair shop" part of the garage, which contained a drill press and a Drummond lathe as well as the emery wheel/grinder. There were no seats: this was strictly a work area. "Let's go out there," she said, gesturing to the main part of the garage. Branson gave her a questioning look, but nodded and followed her as she walked over to the workbench on the far side of the garage and seated herself on it. "Sit down, Branson," she invited.

_ 'Sit down?'_ he wondered silently,_ 'What is this?'_

"This may take a while," Lady Edith explained.

The only chair in the garage was back in the 'office' alcove. To sit near Lady Edith, his choices were to sit on the bench next to her, on the running board of the Renault opposite, or on the concrete floor. Branson perched himself on the running board. This position was excellent for remembering his place (it required him to look quite a distance up at her), but was less good for looking submissively at the floor (if he did that, he would not be able to check her expression through his eyelashes because she was too far above him). He made his face a careful blank, directed his eyes up at her, and waited for her to speak.

"We have a problem, Branson," she told him.

Branson wondered who 'we' were. "Can I help, milady?" he asked.

"You're the problem."

Branson's heart skipped a beat. _'Oh, God.'_

"At least," Lady Edith temporized, seeing his alarm, "we both are."

_ 'CALM DOWN and LISTEN to her,'_ Branson ordered himself sternly, remembering Anna and Mr. Bates' advice. _'She'll tell you what she wants.'_

Lady Edith waited until the chauffeur's look of extreme dismay had toned itself down to anxious attention.

"Last night I told Papa that you had said I was ready for the road." Lady Edith watched two vertical lines appear between Branson's brows at this intelligence. "He said that _wasn't_ what you had told him. This conversation took place at the dinner table. You may be aware we had a number of guests who stayed to dine after the concert. It was humiliating, and I was not very happy about it."

It occurred to Branson that there was a very good reason the White Feather girls had gifted him with one of their tokens. He _was_ a coward. Otherwise, he would certainly tell Lady Edith that if she felt compelled to tell his lordship things that weren't true in front of a roomful of people, then he, Branson, was _not_ the problem. He opened his mouth to say exactly that, but could not get the words out, could not get any words out. He hung his head and closed his eyes.

Lady Edith watched him. _'He ought to be angry,'_ she thought. _'Why isn't he?'_ He had looked angry for a moment, but now he seemed ashamed, as if he thought it actually _were_ his fault. She wondered if her guesses about how he felt right now were as erroneous as her earlier guess about what he thought of her driving. She couldn't keep guessing what he thought; she wasn't good enough at it. He was going to have to learn to be completely honest with her. She wondered how he was going to manage that now that he had 'learned his place' so well. Lady Edith sighed. "I think it's time we had our discussion on the subject of whether we are equal," she told the bowed head.

Branson looked up at her as though he'd been prodded by a sharp instrument: one which hurt him a great deal. _'Here it comes,'_ he thought.

She said, "We are equal."

Branson blinked. He had not heard her correctly. He asked, quite calmly and politely, "What did you say, milady?"

"We are equal," Lady Edith repeated. She looked very grave and held his eyes with hers.

_ 'It still sounds like the same thing.'_ Branson shook his head, to clear it, and looked at her inquiringly, a wordless request for repetition, reassurance, and clarification.

Lady Edith laughed. "Yes, Branson, you heard me correctly. I said, 'We are equal.'"

Branson smiled up at her, distracted. It was too much. He shook his head again. He suspected something had come loose inside his skull, which he hoped could be nudged back into place by this movement so his disordered brain would resume functioning. He had expected a tongue lashing, not a paradigm shift. He opened his mouth, but could not have uttered a sound to save his life. Fortunately, Lady Edith wasn't finished.

"You told me your brother taught you to drive, is that right?" Branson nodded, since his vocal cords were not working.

"And I said I wished I had a brother to teach me to drive."

Branson remembered. He nodded again.

"And _you_ are teaching me to drive."

Branson waited for her to continue. When she didn't, he tried clearing his throat to see if his voice was back. It was. "Yes, milady." His agreement sounded uncertain.

"And I told you I wanted you to remember your place," she continued quietly.

"You did, milady," he confirmed. He did not actually squirm, but his color had heightened, and he was clearly very uncomfortable with the topic.

"It's all right, Branson. I'm not scolding you. Quite the opposite. Look, you've been teaching me as my servant, so deferentially in fact, that I assumed I was ready for the road, when apparently I'm not. When your brother taught you, was he deferential?"

Despite the chauffeur's distress, the image this question provoked in his agitated mind caused him to laugh out loud. "Not hardly, milady."

Lady Edith relaxed. "And did he show any reluctance to inform you when you were doing something wrong?"

"No, milady," Branson admitted cheerfully. "In fact, he's always been remarkably eager to tell me when I'm doing something wrong."

"Well, there you have it." She seemed to think he had somehow proven her point. "I need you to teach me the way you'd teach your sister if you'd been asked to train her to replace you when you're called up."

The chauffeur looked thoughtful at that, but said nothing.

Lady Edith waited. There was no challenge on Branson's face. He seemed to accept what she'd said, but he was clearly waiting for her to take the lead.

"Come on, brother," she finally prompted him. "It's time you told your sister what exactly you've told our father about my driving abilities."

Branson chuckled at the reference to Lord Grantham as 'our father.' He considered what she had said about the two of them being equal. He sighed, got up from the running board, and seated himself next to her on the workbench.

Lady Edith looked at him expectantly.

"You're not ready for the road," he said, "yet. In a few weeks, I'm thinking, with practice. You shouldn't have to start the car more than once on a trip, twice at the most. It's the way you're using the clutch, milady..." The two continued to talk for a long time, honestly and quietly, neither of them giving nor taking offence.

When Lady Edith finally rose to go, Branson rose with her and said, "Milady? May I tell you something?"

"Of course," she said.

"I just—" he started, then stopped. He bit his lip. "I'm not sure I am your equal, milady."

Lady Edith smiled, a sister smiling at a much-loved, but wayward brother. "Well, I'm very sure, Branson. You're the equal of anybody."


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** It's still Wednesday morning, the day after the Hospital Benefit Concert. Action resumes immediately after the end of Chapter 13.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

After Lady Edith had gone, Branson returned to work on the valve he had been grinding. When he paused a moment to measure it again, he heard heels clicking on the concrete floor. She wouldn't sneak up on him again.

"What did you forget, milady?" he called, laughing.

"What would I have forgotten?"

Branson whirled. The husky, dulcet tones of Lady Sybil were unmistakable. "Milady?" He stopped when he reached the main part of the garage.

It was indeed Lady Sybil, but not the Lady Sybil who had been moping around Downton for the past several months. This was the girl he had glimpsed through the drawing room window dressed as a lady of the harem on that long ago, magical day. He had thought then that he had never before seen anything so lovely as this girl he had come to work for, so independent, courageous, and free spirited. But truly, literally, he had seen then through a glass darkly, and now he saw her face to face.

He had a voice. "Has something happened, milady?"

"Yes, Branson. Something wonderful." Her eyes glowed, her soft lips curved into a delicate smile, sweetly, to tell him her news. "Cousin Isobel has got me a place on a nursing course in York. We'll leave on Friday morning. It's two months, then I'll be able to work at the hospital. Real work, Branson. A real job, just like we've always talked about. Just like Gwen. Just like you."

_ 'Just like me,'_ he thought. _'I'm not _going_ to die from loving her. I'm already dead, or I'm dreaming.'_ "That's grand, milady. I'm so happy for you."

Lady Sybil's smile warmed into a grin. This was why she liked to bring her triumphs to Branson: he was always glad, and supported what she wanted to do, a nice change from the reactions of her family.

"I have a cousin who's a nurse, milady," he was saying. "She enjoys it very much. It's hard work, she says, but to know she can help ease suffering, to help someone get better..."

"I know I'll love it," she agreed. "I can't tell you how the very _idea_ of being of use has changed things for me."

"I can see that it has, milady."

Lady Sybil cocked her head inquiringly at that, earrings dancing at the edge of the full, smooth chignon, against the creaminess of her neck. Her near olive complexion was radiant, she actually seemed to glow, like an incandescent bulb.

Branson inclined his own head towards her attire.

Lady Sybil followed his glance down to her frock. It was a work dress, very plain, similar in style to the green dresses the maids wore for morning cleaning, but hers was pink with a sort of red diamond figure. She laughed then, a ringing peal that reminded him of one of the larger bells in a bell choir. "Daisy and Mrs. Patmore are trying to acquaint me with the basics in the kitchen. I thought I'd better dress the part."

"It's very pretty," he complimented.

Marvelously, she both smiled and frowned at the same time. He knew she meant the expression to discourage him, so he looked down momentarily to show he understood and accepted her unspoken rebuke, then looked back up and said, businesslike, "What time will you be pleased to leave on Friday?"

"The opening ceremony is at three, but I'd like to get settled in before that, so when do you think we'll need to start, Branson?"

"If we leave by eleven or even half past, we should be there in good time, milady."

"That's fine, then. Eleven o'clock on Friday."

"I'll be ready, milady." Lady Sybil nodded and left the garage.

* * *

That evening during the family dinner, Branson took the opportunity to slip up to the library. He made sure the coast was clear (just to be on the safe side, though he was quite sure the family were all in the dining room), signed his book back in at the ledger and re-shelved it.

His favorite shelf looked subtly different. He inspected it closely with careful eyes and a gentle finger. _'Ah-ha!'_ There was something new. Branson pulled the book out and gasped when he saw the title.

This was the greatest day of his life. First Lady Edith's astonishing "discussion," then Lady Sybil's joyful announcement of her career news, now this. He stroked the book lovingly. A slip of paper was sticking out of the top of it. This was unusual. Lord Grantham did not believe in leaving papers in books, he said it would damage the spines, and Branson was always extremely careful about taking care of the books his employer was so kindly willing to lend him.

Branson pulled the paper out of the book and looked at it. It was not a bookmark: there was writing on it. A bold hand, in peacock blue ink had written,_ 'I saw this book in a shop and remembered that you wanted to read it. Enjoy.'_ The note was not addressed, it was not dated, it was not signed.

Branson brought all his mental powers to bear in an effort to dissuade himself from believing that this note was intended for him. It could be for anyone, from anyone. But the paper, and the ink, and the handwriting, were Lord Grantham's, the same writing that had appeared on a hundred notes telling him when Lord Grantham wanted the car. His lordship's handwriting was quite different to that of Mr. Carson or Mr. Bates. And Branson distinctly remembered the conversation in which he had told his lordship how much he wanted to read this book, and that he had had no success in finding a copy.

He floated to the ledger, still in a weird state of disbelief, heart aching from the strength of his desire to believe... in something so unlikely. As he signed the book out in the ledger, he whispered, "Thank you, Da."

* * *

On Thursday, Branson did his best to keep himself out of the servants' hall. He knew from Daisy that Lady Sybil would be in the kitchen, and he knew if Mrs. Hughes saw him there, he would be in a fair way to bringing her prediction that he would 'end up with no job and a broken heart' to fruition.

He occupied himself with various work projects for a few hours, he rode along to the village while Lady Edith practiced her driving, but some things are just more than mortal man can stand.

Inevitably, Branson gave in and went to the servant's hall. Mrs. Patmore tolerated his coming into the kitchen and getting a cup of tea, primarily because she was occupied with Daisy and Lady Sybil, who quite frankly looked like a domestic goddess, in a lilac blouse and long white apron. He took his tea into the servants' hall and pretended to read the paper.

He could hear the women's voices in the kitchen, not the words, but the strident tones of Mrs. Patmore (milder than usual in Lady Sybil's honor), Daisy's eager treble, and Lady Sybil's sweet alto, like warm honey.

Tom Branson held up the newpaper, but he could not read a single word. He was thirsty, so he drank his tea. When his cup was empty, more distinct words floated in from the kitchen.

"But are you sure it's ready?" he heard Lady Sybil ask. The cake they were baking must be done.

"I _know_ it's ready." That was Mrs. Patmore.

"Go on now, you don't want to spoil it," Daisy urged.

Branson had risen without thinking and was headed back in to the kitchen. The chauffeur's steps brought him even with the stove. Lady Sybil was lifting the cake out of the oven. Branson stood at gaze a moment, empty teacup in hand, smiling. If he could have stopped time, he would have done it, mere steps away from this wonderful girl, ostensibly 'too far above him,' who was yet here, in the kitchen, not above him at all. For that one moment, he had all he desired in the world.

But he could not stop time. Branson made himself move again: he walked around to the sink to leave his cup, as Mrs. Patmore had trained him to do, then wandered back past the the three women at the work table, headed towards the servants' hall, admiring the ladies' tableau as they fussed with the cake, Lady Sybil pleased and proud of her success. The three were oblivious to his passage, ensconced in their own private world.

Branson made good his escape from the kitchen, then from the house itself. God help him. He was really lost now. There was no way he was going to be able to stop himself now from asking for what he wanted.

* * *

Friday morning, early, Branson returned the new book Lord Grantham had bought to the library. He had replaced the note with one of his own that read, _'Thank you,'_ because he was extremely touched and grateful for the gesture, even though he would never get to read it or discuss it with his lordship, because he was going to be sacked today.

Perhaps he was wrong. Lady Sybil was a kind girl, and she would be gone for the next two months, so if he was far luckier than he deserved, perhaps she would be allow him to resign and give a proper month's notice. It was not as if she would have to be troubled by his impudent presence. She would be in York. He did not even allow the word _'reference'_ into his head.

Branson was sorry to abandon Lady Edith. Perhaps Mr. Pratt could help her when he himself was gone. Mr. Pratt did not enjoy driving, he disapproved of both motorcars and _'shuvvers'_ on principle (even though he was half a _'shuvver'_ himself). He would be likely to see Lady Edith's wish to drive as a direct benefit to himself. At least, Branson hoped so.

The chauffeur wished devoutly that he could at least attempt to talk himself out of his plan. It was beyond maggot-headed, it was quite simply insane. Mrs. Hughes had been so right, he _would_ end up with no job and a broken heart.

In fact, it was going to be broken twice: he did NOT want to lose this job, he loved it at Downton, but if he went through with this, the one thing of which he was absolutely certain, was that he was going to lose his job. It was merely a question of whether he was out on his ear tonight or not for another month. He already missed them all terribly. But he couldn't not ask. She couldn't say yes if he didn't ask.

Branson tried to think rationally. Lady Sybil could not possibly love him: he was the chauffeur. And she _didn't _love him, anyway. Anytime he had showed the slightest bit of admiration for her of a more personal or romantic nature, she had given definite signals that he should stop immediately. She was friendly to him, but she was _not _interested in him in that way.

Tom realized suddenly that he was weeping. Mercifully, he was back inside the chauffeur's cottage. He heard his gasping breaths, felt salt tears run into his mouth. He was going to lose everything he loved, for the crime of asking for what he loved the most.

She was too far above him. He would never reach her.

But her father had bought a book solely because he knew Branson wanted to read it.

And her sister (who had previously told him to remember his place, and not to speak unless he was spoken to) had sat beside him on the workbench in the garage, called him brother, and told him they were equal.

So no matter how much it was going to hurt when she refused him (as refuse him she undoubtedly would), no matter what it mean he would lose, that he was throwing away a job he loved, all the friends he had made here, and any possible hope of a reference, he _couldn't_. _Not_. _**ASK.**_


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note:** Our chapter opens most of the way through Season 2, episode 1, after Branson has left Lady Sybil in York.

**Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Tom felt surprisingly good on the trip back to Downton. True, Lady Sybil had rejected him, (and in no fewer than four separate ways); still, he could not be sorry he had at last told her how he felt. And, he reflected, her responses hadn't been all bad.

Lady Sybil had first attempted to stop him from making his declaration at all (_'Branson,'_ she had begun, second syllable stressed in a warning tone). When he continued, she had told him she was 'flattered' (Lady Mary had often mentioned the use of the term 'flattered' as the approved vehicle for declining proposals amongst the gentry). She then opted for teasing humor, and when that too failed to stop him, she had cast her eyes down to the ground and endured the remainder of his speech in silence.

Despite this clear evidence of the lady's lack of interest, Tom, like a latter-day Epimetheus, found himself peering into the bottom of Pandora's box (from which the spectre of Instant Dismissal without a Character had been released into the world), and seeing that Hope had not flown away.

For Tom Branson, the spirit of Hope was embodied in Lady Sybil Crawley, who, in response to his assurance that he would go, that he would hand in his notice and would not be there when she got back from her nursing course, had looked up at him in alarm and exclaimed, "Don't do that!" _Don't leave me._

She had _not_ said he was beneath her. She had _not_ asked him how he dared say such things to her. She had not called him impertinent. She had not even said she didn't love him. She had put him off as she would have put off an equal.

Tom could not be sorry he had spoken out.

_Don't leave me._

For now, it was enough that she did not want him to leave.

God knew, the very last thing he wanted to do was to leave her.

* * *

Of course, he had to leave her in York, but he would be staying at Downton. Tom smiled his relief at the passing Yorkshire countryside.

With luck, he would be back home in time to take Lord Grantham to Richmond himself. He had put Mr. Pratt on standby, but he knew the coachman cum colleague would be annoyed with him if he actually had to make the trip.

But Branson was making good time. Such good time, in fact, that he decided to stop off at Crawley House on an errand of his own.

Branson went around to the back door.

Mrs. Bird eyed him dubiously. "Mrs. Crawley and Miss Swire are not dining at the big house tonight, Mr. Branson."

"I know, Mrs. Bird. Would you ask Mrs. Crawley if she'd be willing to speak to me for a minute?"

"Someone sent thee with a message?" Mrs. Bird asked.

Tom knew she wasn't just being nosey, she needed to know what to tell her mistress. Tom would have been glad to accept her excuse, but for some reason he always vaguely felt that the earth would open and swallow him if he lied to Mrs. Bird. He had no idea how she had gotten this power over him.

"No, Mrs. Bird... I have a favor to ask her." Mrs. Bird looked at the chauffeur for a long time without saying anything. So long, in fact, that he heard himself continue, "Please."

"I'll let her know you're here," the cook said.

After a few minutes the cook returned. "The mistress will see you. Come this way."

She led him to the cottage's little drawing room. He had been in the room before: it was here he had carried the unconscious Lady Sybil the night of the count in Ripon. He entered the room to find not only Mrs. Crawley, but also Miss Swire looking at him interestedly. Maybe it was just as well, though now that he was here, it dawned on him that he did not really know how to go about making his request.

"Branson," Mrs. Crawley smiled at him, surprised, but not at all angry. "Mrs. Bird tells me you have a favor to ask."

"Yes, ma'am." He looked uncertainly from her to Miss Swire.

Miss Swire smiled back at him. She had no idea what was going on, but if Matthew's mother thought it was fine to entertain requests for favors from chauffeurs, then Miss Swire thought it was fine as well. She looked at her prospective mother-in-law for assistance.

Since Branson did not say anything else, Mrs. Crawley suggested, "Someone at the house sent you ask a favor on their behalf?"

Mrs. Crawley watched the boy blush.

"No, ma'am, the favor's for me... at least, it is for someone at the house, but she doesn't know about it..." his voice trailed off, and he bit his lip.

Mrs. Crawley was delighted. She rarely got a chance to look Branson in the face for such an extended period. Usually they chatted back and forth in the car, and of course at such times he faced the road. Just now he looked like a little boy trying to ask for a biscuit, but expecting a scolding on the grounds he would spoil his supper. She laughed. "Please tell us what you want, Branson."

This seemed to calm him down. He glanced over at Miss Swire again, then looked back at Mrs. Crawley. "You know I've been teaching Lady Edith to drive?"

Mrs. Crawley nodded. Miss Swire remembered mention of it at dinner the other night and nodded that she knew as well. The chauffeur wasn't sure which of them he should look at. "I understand Miss Swire has her car with her."

Both ladies nodded at this as well.

Branson braced himself to ask, "Well, if it isn't too much trouble, I was wondering..."


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note:** This chapter begins the next day.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

On Saturday morning, Edith received a letter from Matthew's fiancée Miss Lavinia Swire proposing a motoring outing. Edith had supposed that her own and her father's remarks at dinner on the night of the Hospital Benefit Concert vis à vis Edith's readiness for the road might have made her look a fool in the London girl's eyes; clearly, that was not the case.

The idea of a closer association with the girl who proposed ultimately to take what Mary supposed to be _her _place as chatelaine of Downton Abbey pleased Edith greatly. As the middle daughter, Edith did not often have the opportunity to steal a march on her older sister in the way of making friends. That making this particular girl a friend would irritate Mary no end was an added bonus. She looked forward to rubbing her sister's nose in her loss of Matthew. Revenge was sweet indeed. Edith therefore agreed readily to Miss Swire's proposed outing.

Accordingly, on Monday morning, Miss Swire arrived at the wheel of her little two seater Maxwell AB to pick up her new friend. Edith had been watching for her, and went out to meet her as soon as the little car pulled into the gravel drive. Miss Swire shut off the engine and got out to show her new friend the finer points of the little vehicle.

The Maxwell had a soft top like the Renault's which was currently up. Miss Swire explained the car's engine was a twin cylinder which could generate 14 horsepower. Lavinia opened the bonnet. Edith, looking at the spotless engine, was reminded of the day she had found Sir Anthony and Branson in conversation over the Silver Ghost. It appeared the motorcar had a sorority as well as a fraternity.

The two girls spent the day pleasantly tooling around the Yorkshire countryside. Early on, as the day grew warmer, Lavinia stopped to put the top down so they could enjoy the sunshine. She showed Edith how the mechanism worked, then asked Edith if she'd like to start the car. Edith had admired the ease with which Lavinia had been able to crank start the motor back at the house, and was a little concerned she would cut a poor figure in comparison, but was nevertheless game to try.

Edith put her hand on the crank, fingers and thumb together. She cranked the handle smartly. To her surprise, the Maxwell offered far less resistance that then Renault. Edith smiled at Lavinia in surprise. "That was easy!"

Lavinia nodded, smiling back. "It's one of the reasons I like this car so much, despite its lack of a self-starter."

"A what?" Edith asked.

"A self-starter," Lavinia repeated, "a sort of electrical device, so you don't have to crank it. The new cars have them, but I'm so used to this car, I hate to give it up, and it's easy to crank, so…" Lavinia noticed Edith's expression. "You've never heard of a self-starter?"

"No," Edith confirmed. "I never have." But _someone _was going to.

* * *

The outing was a great success. It wasn't long before Lavinia turned the wheel over to Edith on the grounds that the local girl knew where they wanted to go. The little car was not very fast, but it was easy to handle, and Edith enjoyed driving it. They headed into Ripon for tea and pastries at a little tearoom Edith knew, then as the afternoon shadows lengthened, Lavinia helped Edith put the top back up before they headed back to Downton.

As they neared the estate, Lavinia said, "This was a wonderful idea. I'm so glad he suggested it."

Edith could not help saying, "I hadn't thought Matthew enjoyed our sightseeing so much he would have recommended me to someone else."

"Oh, not Matthew, Br—" Lavinia stopped abruptly, remembering his saying '_she doesn't know about it.'_

Edith waited, but Lavinia said nothing else. "Branson?" she suggested.

Lavinia looked at the glint in her new friend's eye. "You're not angry, are you? Please don't be. He was very sweet asking. Mrs. Crawley thought it a good idea. And I've had a wonderful time, haven't you?"

Lady Edith smiled at her cousin's fiancée reassuringly. "How _could _I be angry? I've enjoyed our outing."

Lavinia smiled in relief as they pulled up in the gravel drive.

* * *

After her new friend had left, Lady Edith lost no time in walking back to the garage.

"Branson?" she called. "I've got a bone to pick with you."

The chauffeur appeared from the 'repair shop' looking like a man who had more than he could handle. Normally when she came at him this way, he was alarmed. Not today. He said, bluntly, "Please tell me you're joking, milady."

The two stared at each other for a moment. Obviously, he had taken her speech the other day to heart. Lady Edith laughed. "Fortunately for you, I am."

"Thank God," he said, running a hand through his hair. His hand and arm were streaked with grease. Edith realized with a start that he was filthy. His normally immaculate coverall was streaked with oil, and what looked like actual dirt. She looked around, as she had not done previously in her focus on her little "joke."

The vehicle in the garage was neither of the two motorcars used by the family. It was instead a lorry of some type, and a filthy one at that, its innards strewn around the garage seemingly at random.

"What are you doing, Branson? Whose lorry is that?"

He started to put up a hand to wipe his mouth, but stopped when he noticed how dirty his hand was. He wiped it on his leg instead, then found a clean part of his sleeve to wipe his mouth on instead. "It's ours."

"Ours?"

He shrugged. "The home farm's."

"Why's it here?"

"There's something wrong with it."

She looked around again at the pieces of it. "Obviously. What's wrong with it?"

"It's taken me a while to figure out." He looked at her happily. "It's busted."

Both young people exploded into laughter.

Branson combed his filthy hand through his equally filthy hair again. "I thought for a while I knew what the problem was, but I was wrong."

"Why are you working on it at all?"

"Do you see any other mechanics around here, milady? 'Cause if you do, please send them in, I'm bushed." He brushed parts of the lorry to the side so he could sit down on the workbench. "What was it you wanted to bawl me out about, milady?"

"I just got back from my outing with Miss Swire. Thank you," she said, pointedly.

"You can't possibly be angry about that," he objected. "You didn't like the Maxwell? I love that car! It's adorable. It's the car I'd get my daughter," he confided, teasingly. He considered. "If I had a daughter." He thought some more. "And money to buy a car."

"I enjoyed the outing," Edith admitted. "Though I'm not a charity case, that you have to beg people to take me out."

"I'd have done it for my sister," he told her virtuously. Edith smiled. "Besides, you wouldn't call it charity if you knew what I had to promise them in exchange. Nor begging, either, come to that."

Edith frowned. "What did you promise?"

Branson sighed. "I think I must have promised to perform free maintenance forever on that little car, whenever Miss Swire is at Downton." When Edith looked surprised, he said, "They'd tell me to do it anyway, since she's Mr. Matthew's fiancée."

Lady Edith looked serious again. Branson eyed her. "Are we good on this?"

Edith nodded. He sighed thankfully. "Before you relax," she added. "Would you like to tell me what a self-starter is?"

He stared at the wall for a good quarter of a minute, then chuckled. "Not very much, milady, no."

Lady Edith made a feint towards him. He squirmed out of her way, laughing, "You'd better not touch pitch, milady; you're bound to be smirched. And in case you haven't noticed, milady, there's a war on. His lordship can't be buying new cars with self-starters just because you're too lazy to turn a crank. Anyway, if you want to be my replacement, you need to be able to do what I can do… so you want to take over fixing this lorry?" He smiled hopefully at her.

"I think I've created a monster," Lady Edith said, smiling.

The monster grinned at her.

Lady Edith shook her head. "Get back to work, Branson, I'm going to go get changed for dinner." As she left the garage, she heard him call, "You're welcome, milady."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: **I haven't got one.

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

The following afternoon, when Lady Edith arrived for her driving lesson, she found Branson outside washing the lorry. She checked the garage. The mess had been cleaned up and the various pieces of the old lorry had presumably been either fixed or replaced and stuffed back inside the vehicle.

"You fixed it?" Lady Edith asked.

Branson nodded tiredly.

"What was wrong with it?"

"You don't want to know, milady," the chauffeur told her.

"I do," she insisted.

Branson sighed deeply. He ached for sleep. "Well, for starters, it had a dead animal in it."

"Oh, God, maybe I _don't _ want to know."

"I promise you, you don't. Even _I _don't want to know."

She watched him finish with the lorry, drying it as carefully as he would have one of the limousines. He was clean again as well, his beige coverall either miraculously laundered, or, more probably, a different one.

"I see you've cleaned yourself up."

"I had to," Branson agreed, "I had a trip this morning with his lordship."

"What happened to your coverall from last night?"

"I took it to the laundry. Mrs. Dingle burned it in front of my face, and told me she'd serve me the same way if I ever brought her another in the same condition."

Lady Edith gaped at him.

"I'm joking, milady… though not by much. Let's just say I'm not very popular with the laundry just now."

"But you'll be popular with the home farm."

"So I should hope. Would you like to drive the lorry back to them, milady?"

Lady Edith smiled in surprise. "Yes, I'd enjoy that."

* * *

Lady Edith's driving lessons continued, now with the added quirk that while she still practiced principally on the Renault, he also had her drive the Cabriolet. In addition, every few days, just as he had with the farm lorry, Branson came up with some different vehicle for her to try: a neighbor's Model T, a tradesman's Sheffield-Simplex, a Napier improbably owned by a well-off farmer. The owners of these vehicles invariably treated Lady Edith with respect, and Branson as a friend. She noted that some of the men addressed Branson as "Tom."

Once in a while, Edith suggested to one of the men that he should call her "Edith." Depending on the man's personality, social status, or the degree to which he depended on the estate for his livelihood, some of them agreed, while others declined politely on the grounds he did not wish to be disrespectful. All of the men she said this to, however, looked curiously at Branson for his reaction. He offered none, but never addressed her himself as anything but "milady," and never referred to her as anything but "Lady Edith."

The chauffeur seemed keen that she should learn some mechanics. He showed her how to change a tire, or patch one with a Parson's Rapid Repair Kit, and how to fill or change the car's oil. When she baulked at any task (as she had with changing the oil) he laughed at her: "Milady, how do you expect to earn your Automobiling Badge if you can't change the oil?"

"What are you talking about?"

"The Girl Scouts. They offer a merit badge now for automobiling. But you need to know some mechanics, not just driving. Plus some First Aid… you'll have to ask Lady Sybil for help with that when she comes back."

"_Girl _Scouts? Do you mean Girl _Guides_?"

"No. The girls in America are Scouts just like the boys. That's equal rights. Smart country. And they're smart enough to know you need mechanics for automobiling."

* * *

One day he took her to the Grantham Arms.

"Is it here, George?" Branson asked the man at the bar.

"Out back."

Branson led Lady Edith through to the rear yard. She saw a huge red bus parked there. "I can't drive _that_!"

The chauffeur raised one eyebrow provocatively. "You can _try._"

A few days later, it was a goods lorry he wanted her to try. She got behind the wheel and found that the interior of the driver's compartment was almost identical to that of the bus. When she mentioned it to Branson, he was pleased with her. "Correct, milady. They're both Thornycroft Type J's. Excellent."

* * *

Edith noticed that sometimes the cars he was working on were ones she had driven. Sometimes she recognized a car she was allowed to drive as one she had already seen in the garage. She concluded that he must be trading repairs and maintenance for people showing her their cars and letting her drive them, just as he had with Miss Swire and her Maxwell. But Miss Swire was Cousin Matthew's fiancée. These other people weren't. It worried her enough to ask him about it.

"Branson, are you going to get in trouble for doing this?"

He was engaged in changing the spark plugs on a weirdly shaped Baby Mathis. Lady Edith had no idea who it belonged to. It could not possibly be the property of the estate. Branson glanced up at her. "Funny you should ask that, milady. I already have."

* * *

A week or two before, Branson had been summoned to Mr. Jarvis' office. There were three reasons why the agent might want to see the chauffeur: he wanted to go over the garage accounts, he wanted to complain that the reporting of Branson's board wages was unnecessarily confusing, or he wanted Branson to do some work for another department. Since it was not the end of the quarter, Branson presumed he was going to be told to do something. However, when he arrived, instead of the usual sitdown with just the agent, Branson found Lord Grantham was there, seated next to Mr. Jarvis' desk. The only time Branson had ever met with the two men together was at his initial hiring interview. The situation made the chauffeur nervous, just on general principles. Branson was not offered a seat, and he rapidly concluded that the purpose of the meeting was to give the agent the opportunity to dress the chauffeur down in front of his employer.

Lord Grantham listened impassively to the agent's litany of complaints about the time the chauffeur was spending on vehicles not owned by the estate, his long absences, and his [Jarvis'] belief that Branson was taking advantage of his position for his [Branson's] own profit.

At the word "profit," Branson upgraded his assessment of the situation to the heartstopping conclusion that Mr. Jarvis did not want to dress him down; the agent wanted to dismiss him. _'Oh, please God, no. Not like this.' _Instant Dismissal had of course been hanging over the chauffeur's head like the Sword of Damocles ever since his return from York, but to be discharged for being in love with Lady Sybil was one thing, to be sacked as a thief was quite another.

Branson blinked rapidly several times, and stared at the wall opposite as Mr. Jarvis' tirade continued. _Was there something wrong with what he'd been doing? Lord Grantham and Mr. Jarvis had both repeatedly told him to assist people with their cars since the start of the war. Branson himself had brought at least half a dozen such requests to Mr. Jarvis for permission. Permission had never been denied, and the last time he'd asked, Mr. Jarvis had berated him for wasting the agent's time when he knew he had permission, as long as he kept good records. That conversation had been almost a year ago, and Mr. Jarvis had never disputed any of the entries in his accounts. Of course, there **had **been an awful lot of them recently... _Branson sighed. He closed his eyes. He wished, now that it was too late, that he had spoken to one of these two men before. He literally had not thought about it. Branson opened his eyes and met the angry eyes of the agent. He did not think Mr. Jarvis was going to believe the truth.

No one had spoken except the agent, who seemingly was able to continue endlessly without drawing breath. Branson could feel Lord Grantham's eyes on him. The chauffeur did not want to look at his lordship; he dreaded to see the agent's outrage and betrayal mirrored on the face of the man Lady Edith had dubbed his 'father,' it was very painful even to think about it, let alone see it, but he found his eyes inexorably drawn to his employer anyway. Finally, Branson took his courage in his hands, and turned his head the tiny bit needed to meet Lord Grantham's eyes. Amazingly, the expression he found there was not anger, not disappointment, not betrayal. Instead, his lordship's eyes were both kind and serene, filled with utter confidence and faith that whatever Branson was doing, he was _not _defrauding the estate. Branson felt such a rush of love in response to this obvious trust that it actually took away most of his fear. Most, but not all. He turned his attention back to the furious agent.

When Mr. Jarvis had fully vented his spleen, he demanded an explanation. Branson's eyes shot momentarily back to his lordship. Lord Grantham gave an almost imperceptible nod. _Don't be afraid, just tell him the truth, and have faith that everything will be all right._

Branson swallowed and took a deep breath. He apologized for not having spoken to Mr. Jarvis about the matter previously. He explained that his lordship had asked him to teach Lady Edith to drive, and that Lady Edith had expressed the wish to be fitted to assist in situations where the men who ordinarily drove had been called up into the army. It had occurred to the chauffeur that it would be useful if Lady Edith learned to drive a variety of vehicles, and as part of his efforts in that direction, he had agreed to perform various kinds of maintenance for people willing to show Lady Edith their vehicles and try them out. He was not personally profiting from these transactions, and they were all noted in the garage's daily journal and account books. The owners of the cars were paying for all necessary supplies. The only thing the estate was "donating" was Branson's labor. Branson would be glad to go over the accounts with Mr. Jarvis now or at any other convenient time. He apologized again for not consulting Mr. Jarvis before he began. He should have realized how the situation looked. Branson finally fell silent as a result of seeing Lord Grantham's minute signal to conclude.

Lord Grantham himself then took over, also addressing the agent. Branson, despite having trouble staying focused due to the clog dance his heart was doing, could not but admire his employer's adroitness in handling the situation and smoothing the agent's ruffled feathers. Lord Grantham apologized that he had not kept Mr. Jarvis informed. He had indeed instructed the chauffeur to teach Lady Edith to drive and had given him a free hand in how he went about it. He praised the agent's diligence in addressing the situation, as indeed in all matters entrusted to his care. The more Lord Grantham talked, the more pleased Mr. Jarvis became, so that by the time his lordship was finished, the agent seemed both satisfied and vindicated, even though the content of his lordship's remarks was in essence that Branson could do however much extra work he wanted as long as the garage accounts remained under budget. If they went over, the chauffeur understood, there would be the devil to pay. Finally, the two older men told him to get back to work. He did so, feeling vaguely that he had been kicked, but still immensely relieved.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: **I keep trying to remind myself that "Brevity is the soul of wit."

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

There was a distinct chill in the air, but the sun shone brightly, touching Lady Edith's hair, where it peeked out from under her hat, into spun gold. As he watched the bi-play between the lady and that madcap chauffeur Tom Branson, Old Ainslie thought she was the most beautiful girl who had ever been asked to drive his tractor. Then again, she was the _only_ girl who had ever been asked to drive his tractor.

"Branson," the lady was saying, "Is there any history of insanity in your family?"

"No, milady. Mam always says I'm the only one who's ever shown any taint of it. She reckons her own son must have been switched out by the fairy folk with a changeling."

Lady Edith glanced at him sidelong. "I hope so, for her sake." She contemplated the tractor. "I can't possibly drive that."

"Why not?" the chauffeur asked.

"It's a _tractor_."

"An astute observation, milady. People drive tractors. What's the problem?"

"I can't drive a tractor."

"Not yet."

"I can't—"

"Why are you always telling me you can't? After all the different vehicles you've managed to drive, milady, why aren't you saying, 'Of _course_ I can.'"

Lady Edith was frowning at him, not angry, just bemused.

"Say it, milady." Branson's voice was suddenly urgent, his look intense.

"Why should I?"

"Just say it! 'Of course I can!'"

"Don't be silly!" Now she _was_ getting angry, sort of. Why was he acting like this?

"I'm not," he insisted, "You need to believe in your—"

"Here now!" Old Ainslie interrupted. "You can't be speaking to the young lady like that, Mr. Branson! You're her servant, not her brother! Remember your place!"

The two young people exchanged glances. They had forgotten they weren't alone. Old Ainslie, though technically below Branson in the estate hierarchy, was several decades the chauffeur's senior, and Branson wanted the old man's help teaching Lady Edith to drive the tractor. Branson apologized, "I'm sorry, Mr. Ainslie. I wasn't thinking."

"Tell milady, not me, and watch your mouth, young man."

Branson heard Lady Edith's snort of laughter, and strove to suppress one of his own. He knew Old Ainslie would not forgive him if he starting laughing. He turned to Lady Edith, blushing, and trying to compose his features into an expression that would encourage the old man to stop his scolding. "I apologize, milady. I meant no disrespect."

Lady Edith, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself under control, nodded. "I know. I forgive you," she declaimed magnanimously. "And you must forgive him, too, Ainslie," she told the old farm worker. "He means no harm. He just gets a little high-spirited in the sunshine." Fortunately, Old Ainslie failed to catch the humorously murderous look this remark earned her from her 'brother.'

The old man, satisfied, turned back to the business at hand. He nodded to the tractor. "Think you can give it a go, milady?"

"Don't be silly," Lady Edith replied. "Of course I can."

* * *

As it turned out, even Old Ainslie found the tractor a little difficult to handle. Branson was reflecting he probably should have given the tractor the once-over before bringing Lady Edith out to the home farm. Ainslie had not complained of any problems, so he hadn't thought. He would do it after the lesson was finished.

A massive effort had gotten the machine started, but now, as the old man tried to put the tractor into gear, Branson heard the gears grind in protest, while the tractor remained stationary. _'Oh, grand," _Branson thought, _'teach her that!'_

Old Ainslie pumped the accelerator pedal. "Come on, damm ewe!" he cursed.

Lady Edith and Branson looked at each other round eyed with astonished, not-very-well-surpressed laughter. The tractor moved in response to the old man's profanity. Lady Edith applauded. The two young people started walking after the sputtering tractor.

"Why have you never taught me that, Branson?" Lady Edith asked.

"I was too busy watching my mouth," he muttered.

Lady Edith winked at him. "And remembering your place, brother."

"Yes, milady," he agreed ruefully. "God forbid I should forget my place."


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note: **Our friends continue their efforts to turn Lady Edith into a professional chauffeur extraordinaire, and incidently to "bridge the Great Divide."

**Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

They had gone into Ripon to purchase automotive supplies. Lady Edith drove, and made the entire nine miles each way without once stalling out. She was extremely cock-a-hoop about it. Upon their return, Branson had set her the task of entering their purchases into his daily journal and account book, while he himself worked on the Cabriolet.

Lady Edith admired both the chauffeur's handwriting and the neatness of his books. It was fascinating to her to leaf through the journal and see the record of what he did each day: where he took Papa, Mama, Granny, Mary, herself, her driving lessons, what cars he worked on, the tractor lessons with Old Ainslie (it had taken quite a while for her to master that particular 'infernal machine'), etc. Some of the notations, though, she didn't understand.

"Branson?"

"Yes, milady?" he called back from the main part of the garage.

"Can you come help me? I don't know how you want this entered."

"Certainly, milady." He came into the 'office' alcove, wiping his hands on a rag. "Show me."

Lady Edith showed him the spare part she was documenting. Branson explained how he wanted it recorded in the books. He started to go back to what he'd been doing, but she stopped him. "Branson, what does this mean?"

He looked at the notation she pointed to. "You won't ever need to do that, milady."

"Do what? What does it mean?"

"It means I ate dinner in the servants' hall."

Lady Edith turned the page. "And here?"

"I did some work for the generator men," he pointed to the listing, "and they gave me lunch."

She flipped through some more pages. "Servants' hall?" He nodded that she was correct. "Servants' hall, what's this? The stables? I see you were helping them that day." He nodded again. "Why do you have to write down where you ate? Isn't that a lot of trouble?"

He shrugged. "I'm used to it."

"But why do it?"

"So they can get credit for my board wages."

"What?"

Branson thought about how to explain it. "You know meals are part of a servant's wages?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, that's called the 'board wage.' If I always ate in the chauffeur's cottage, I could either be paid a straight board wage, or else just draw a certain amount of supplies, but since I eat so often with other departments, I have to report it so they can get credit for a pro-rated board wage when they feed me, just like I get credit for the garage account when I work on the home farm vehicles or fabricate parts for the generator."

"Why not just eat in the chauffeur's cottage?"

He shrugged again. "I don't like eating alone all the time."

"Why not?"

He muttered something she didn't catch, and started to walk out of the alcove. She thought he might be blushing. That was amusing. "Come back over here, Branson. I haven't finished speaking to you."

Perforce, he returned to the desk, as he must since she had ordered it. Yes, he was blushing all right. Oh, it was whole a lot more fun teasing Branson, even than teasing Mary; the chauffeur was about ten times more responsive than her sister ever was, even at her most vulnerable. Lady Edith wondered what was more pleasurable: teasing him, or making him obey her? "Tell me what you said."

He avoided her eyes and muttered what she assumed was a repetition, but she still didn't understand what he'd said. Now she was getting irritated. "What are you saying?" she snapped, "Enunciate clearly."

He stared at the wall opposite. She could have sworn he actually ground his teeth.

"I said,**'I get lonely,' **milady." Each word was pronounced loud and clear. It was equally clear that he was embarrassed by the admission, and was _clearly_ upset at being made to repeat it.

Teasing him was fun; actually hurting him was not. "I'm sorry, Tom, I-"

He cut her off hurriedly, eyes wide. "You mustn't call me that, milady." If Lady Edith had thought to calm him by her familiarity, then the effect of her words was the polar opposite of her intention.

She was confused. "That is your name, isn't it?"

"Not to you, it's not. To you, my name is 'Branson.'"

"You can call me-"

"I can't call you _anything_ but 'milady', milady."

Lady Edith sighed. She could see how alarmed he was. "All right, Branson. I'll keep calling you 'Branson,' and you'll keep calling me 'milady.'"

The chauffeur nodded and relaxed. "Thank you, milady."

Lady Edith pursed her lips and looked at him shrewdly. "I just have one more question for you, brother."

Branson was calm again, his embarrasment of a few moments ago already forgotten. "What's that, milady?"

"Why is it you never object when I call you 'brother'?"

The chauffeur was blushing again, but this time it was with pleasure. He let out his breath and sneaked a glance at her. "I suppose I should, milady, since it's probably just as dangerous, but I like it too much to ask you to stop," he finished with a shy smile.

_'He's so sweet,'_ she thought, _'it's like having a male version of Sybil.'_ Why couldn't she get along with Mary like she did with him? "I wish you really were my brother, Branson."

He looked away, and ran his teeth quickly over his bottom lip. "I wish I were, too... May I please go back to work now, milady?"

"Get back to work, Branson."

* * *

Later they worked on the daily schedules. He considered an order from Lady Grantham to go to Malton on Friday. "Mr. Pratt will be irritated."

"Why's that?"

"Because he'll have to take her."

"Why can't you take her?"

"Because I'll be on my way to York to pick up Lady Sybil."

"Oh, that's right. Her nursing course is almost finished." Lady Edith brightened. "Why don't I take Mama?"

"You can't," Branson laughed.

"Of course I can-"

"No, milady, not this time."

"Why not?" she objected petulantly, pushing out her lower lip at him.

He grinned. "Because you'll be on your way to York to pick up Lady Sybil."


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Note: ** Well, what better way to show her there's no pressure, that it is safe to allow him to stay?

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Friday dawned undeniably cold, and stayed that way, but the sun shone, and withal, it was a beautiful, glorious day. Lady Sybil was coming home.

_'Now, if she only keeps her promise not to get me sacked, life will be perfection.'_ Branson told himself sternly that this was not merely chicken-hearted; it was also ungrateful. If Lady Sybil had wanted him gone, he would have been a memory two months ago.

Instead, he was riding herd on the very excited Lady Edith. He watched her doing preliminary checks on the Renault. She carefully checked the petrol and water cans, the tires, the oil, the tool kit, even the headlamps.

"It's broad daylight," Branson pointed out. "We won't need the headlamps on this trip."

"What if there's a problem, and we get delayed past dark? You wouldn't want to discover only then that the headlamps are clogged, or out of carbide, would you? What kind of chauffeur are you? Is that how you prepare things when you're driving Papa?"

"I abase myself, milady," he conceded, tongue firmly in cheek. "Of course you're perfectly correct. Please proceed." He smothered his laughter at her haughty nod of acknowledgement.

"I'll just step into the kitchen to fetch our lunch, shall I, milady?" Lady Edith had insisted that if it was appropriate for the chauffeur to bring along a sandwich for himself, then it was appropriate for her as well as his apprentice. She nodded permission and continued with her safety checks. When he returned with the lunch basket from Mrs. Patmore, Lady Edith pronounced them ready to depart.

* * *

It was the longest drive she had made to date, which was really the point of the exercise. The lady was confident in her movements, so while Branson kept one eye on her and the other on the road, he let his mind wander to Lady Sybil.

He missed her.

Did she miss him?

She must have kept her promise not to tell her family about his declaration, since he was still employed. Would her promise still hold good now that she was coming home? He had no idea.

"Earth to Branson," Lady Edith paged him, mock testily.

He wondered uneasily how long she had been trying to get his attention. "I'm sorry, milady. I was a thousand miles away." _'Or a dozen, anyway.'_

"So I noticed. You've been awfully quiet. And you've had a funny look on your face. I thought it might be my driving." She paused to shift, and Branson noticed she could now do so easily, the double clutch/declutch coming in a fluid movement, almost second nature. "But then I saw you weren't really paying any attention to my driving," she continued her monologue, "so I decided it must be something else."

"Like what, milady?"

"You tell me. Did you by any chance invite me along on this trip so you won't have to face Lady Sybil alone?"

Branson almost jumped out of his skin. Her assessment of the situation was so unexpected _('what had she been saying while he was universe-contemplating?')_ and so correct, that the chauffeur was unable to get his reaction under control immediately. He knew she had seen it, but asserted, "I don't know what you mean, milady."

"It's true!" Lady Edith crowed, delighted at the accuracy of what had been, essentially, a wild guess. "You're afraid of Lady Sybil!" She laughed, and shot a glance sideways at him. He was wearing the hard look he favored when she said things he didn't like. _'If he didn't want to be teased, he shouldn't be so entertaining.'_

"That's absurd, milady."

She was still chuckling. "It is absurd. And you're stealing my lines now… Wait a minute. How on earth can you be afraid of Lady Sybil?" Lady Edith looked over at him again. He really did not look good.

"Branson?"

He sighed. "Yes, milady?"

"Tell me why you're afraid of Lady Sybil."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You are, you are, you are." She stuck out her tongue at him. He saw it, but didn't laugh. He looked away.

"Forgot your place with her, as well, did you?"

He didn't answer.

"Branson, if you're trying to convince me I'm wrong, this isn't the way."

He looked back over at her worriedly. "What is the way, milady?"

"Oh my God," she said. "You really are afraid of her, aren't you?"

"No."

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not," but he sounded like he was going to cry, not like he was angry.

"Do you want me to pull over, Branson?"

"Please don't, milady." She looked over at him. He was looking out at the road, a little away from her. She kept driving.

Finally, she sighed. "Branson, in all her life, I've never know Lady Sybil to be angry for longer than six minutes straight. Whatever you did, whatever you said, I promise you, she's forgotten it by now."

His reply was very quiet. "I don't think so, milady."

"Branson, this is Sybil we're talking about. Mary or I might read you the riot act over something you did two months ago, but not Sybil." He was still looking away. "Are you listening to me, Branson?"

"Yes, milady."

"Look at me then."

He met her eyes, his worry now undisguised.

"If she is by some miracle still angry, your big sister is here to protect you."

Branson did laugh at that, and finally looked relaxed.


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: **I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Lady Sybil was one of the last students to be picked up, chiefly because she had accepted an invitation to luncheon with some faculty members who were friends of Cousin Isabel.

When the time came for her departure, however, she was packed up and ready to go.

"Where to, milady?" It was a female voice asking. Lady Sybil found it odd to be addressed as 'milady' after two months of being 'Nurse Crawley,' but turned automatically to see what maid or staffer was addressing her. The voice sounded familiar. Lady Sybil followed the sound to its origin and saw an amazing spectacle: a slender young lady in a fashionable long grey winter coat, topped by a too large chauffeur's cap and goggles.

Lady Edith laughed at her sister's surprise. "I've come to be your chauffeur back to Downton," she announced. Lady Sybil looked quickly around. Edith was alone.

Sybil smiled at her sister. They embraced. "You can drive all that way?"

"How do you think I got here?"

Lady Sybil was looking at the cap and goggles. "Where did you get those?"

"From Branson. Suits me far better than it ever did him, don't you think?" Edith tilted her head, modeling the new headgear.

"It's very dashing," Lady Sybil agreed. Her mind raced, then her heart sped up to try to catch it. _He had gone. _She ought to be relieved. She felt a queer churning in her chest, in her stomach. Whatever these tumultuous feelings were, she was pretty sure they _weren't _relief. _'Why did you leave me, Branson? I __**told **__you not to!'_ Sybil put up a hand to rub her forehead, then pressed her fingers momentarily against her mouth. "Edith, where's Branson?" Even Sybil could hear the alarm in her voice.

"Branson?" Edith asked airily. "Why's he's—"

"I'm here, milady," said a quiet Irish voice. Branson stepped into sight from around the corner where Lady Edith had told him to wait. His head was bare, and he held Lady Edith's hat.

_'__**This**__ was relief,' _Lady Sybil thought, as it flooded her at the welcome sight of him.

Lady Edith was frowning at the chauffeur for spoiling her 'joke.' "Just for that, Branson, I'm not giving you your cap back."

"Should I wear yours then, milady?" Branson held the little cloche up, amused. "I don't think it's as becoming to my style of beauty as mine is to yours."

Lady Sybil smiled to see the chauffeur's smile at her sister. He was enviably relaxed, not at all like the stiff professional demeanor he normally sported when in the presence of more than one family member. Lady Sybil had never seen him act like this before, except when they were alone… No, wait, she _had _seen him like this before.

On a memorable day back in the winter before her London season, she and Gwen had recruited him to drive them to a job interview of Gwen's in Ripon, under the cover of a 'shopping' trip for which Lady Sybil had insisted she needed to be accompanied by a maid. After the muddy adventure with Dragon, they had at last decided to risk trusting the discretion of the chauffeur. He had clowned this way with Gwen, to distract her from the fact that both of them were probably risking their livelihoods if they got caught. Sybil had thought the chauffeur and the redhaired maid had acted like brother and sister.

Lady Sybil contemplated her own sister as she bantered with the chauffeur. The two must have bonded over Lady Edith's driving. They had traded back hats, and Branson had picked up her luggage. The three of them walked out to where he had parked the car. As he strapped her bags onto the back, Lady Edith was telling Sybil about the drive to York and how well she had done.

"Didn't I, Branson?"

"Yes, milady, you did very well." He had finished with the luggage and come up toward the front of the car. He smiled at the two ladies.

"I'm going to drive the first leg, Branson," Lady Edith told him, "and Lady Sybil wants to watch me, so you get in the back." Lady Sybil smiled at the idea of the unorthodox arrangement, and passersby were treated to the entertaining spectacle of a laughing chauffeur playing the part of a sort of automotive Lord of Misrule, getting into the passenger compartment of the limousine, while the two elegant ladies crank started the car, then climbed up to the front bench to drive him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Note:** The next afternoon.

**Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

In the summer, Branson preferred to wash the cars early in the morning, before the heat of the day. The rest of the year, he saved the task for the afternoon whenever possible, because he liked to work in the sunshine. He also enjoyed washing the car more when it was actually dirty, as it was today after their trip to York, because then he felt like he was actually accomplishing something: the difference between the car's appearance before and after he washed it was more appreciable.

Leaving the task for this afternoon had meant using the Cabriolet last night and this morning, but no one had complained about his arrangements. At Downton they rarely complained. He was very lucky in this position, he knew.

Branson remembered once when he was working for Mrs. Delderfield back in Ireland, she had had him take her nephew to a ball, even though she had a charity meeting early the following morning. The ball was quite a distance away, and the weather was desperate. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. before Mrs. Delderfield's nephew finally left the ball, and past dawn before Branson arrived at home. He then had to spend half the time remaining before his employer's trip washing and polishing the car. He did not know when he had been more tired. He remembered the brittle feeling brought on by extreme fatigue. Mrs. Delderfield had been a nice lady on the whole, but she wouldn't have been nice if he hadn't appeared on time in an immaculate vehicle to take her to her meeting.

It wasn't like that now. Branson could switch to the other car at need, or even ask Mr. Pratt to make one of the trips. Branson was glad Lady Sybil wasn't angry with him, hadn't let him resign, and hadn't gotten him sacked. He was also very glad she was home from York. He smiled. He was glad she was walking towards him.

Lady Sybil strode purposefully towards the garage. As she came up to where the chauffeur worked, she stopped. "Branson," she greeted him.

Branson had paused in his work to attend to her. "Milady." He waited to hear what she wanted. Lord and Lady Grantham always sent messages by a third party when they wanted to order the motor, but it was quite normal for the three young ladies to step across the yard in person to arrange for transportation. Branson, therefore, presumed Lady Sybil would say she wanted to order the motor.

"No need to stop working," she said instead.

Branson was confused. For him to keep working while a member of the family spoke to him was normally considered unacceptably rude, yet she had basically ordered him to do just that. He decided that direct insubordination was the worse offense, and resumed his task.

"I've been to the hospital," Lady Sybil informed him.

Branson glanced at her, but said nothing and kept working as she had directed.

"I'm to start tomorrow with an orientation, then I'll work a day shift for a week or so with another nurse "mentoring" me before they start scheduling me on my own."

Branson spread the wax-based polish in a thin, even layer on the next section of the Renault. "What time should I pick you up in the morning, milady?"

"Oh, you needn't," Lady Sybil assured him. "I'll be walking down, like a normal person. It's only a mile, after all."

The chauffeur's hands, occupied as they were with rag and tin of polish, shook for just a moment before he got himself under control. He sneaked a glance at her. If she didn't want the motor, why was she out here? He would be thrilled to think she had come out just to talk, but she had never done so before. And shouldn't she be punishing him for making his declaration to her when he dropped her off in York?

He remembered the weeks after the garden party when he had taken her hand for a few moments. For weeks afterward she had been rigidly formal, so he would be certain to get the message that his behavior had been inappropriate, and that a continuation would not be tolerated. She had eventually "forgiven" him, and she talked to him freely when alone in the car, he had even suspected once or twice that she had decided to go somewhere in order to be able to talk to him, but to just walk out to the garage to talk to him? Branson continued to work steadily, ignoring his suddenly pounding heart. _'Please let her have come out here just to talk to me.'_

To test his theory, Branson asked. "What was your nursing course like, milady?"

This was clearly the right question. Lady Sybil smiled at him. "I'm glad you ask, Branson. It was like nothing I could have imagined..."

Branson continued to polish and buff the Renault to gleaming perfection, what time Lady Sybil retailed very full and complete information on the subject of "auxiliary nursing," what she had learned and what she had done for the past two months.

"I had no idea it was possible to change the bed linens without getting the patient out of bed," she admitted. She went on to describe how to do it. She explained the best way to scrub the floor of a room filled with occupied beds, how to tie back your hair so it wouldn't be in your way, how to prepare gruel, milk toast, and barley water, how to wash clothes and sterilize bandages, how to change bandages, and how to give a sponge bath.

While the lady talked, the chauffeur said little. He continued to work, looking up at her every so often to show his interest in what she was saying, once in a while murmuring agreement to encourage her to continue, though she did not actually seem to require any encouragement. Branson was charmed by the novelty of being able to look at her while she spoke, but was also afraid that if he spoke himself he would break the spell and call her attention to the fact that she had no earthy business being out here with him and go.

Branson would gladly have continued to polish the car and listen to her forever. He had, in fact, actually finished the whole car, but opted to repolish a section he'd already completed so as not to disturb the lady's narrative. By the time he'd finished it, and before he started again on another already completed section, Lady Sybil apparently ran out of nursing course anecdotes and information.

"Thank you for listening, Branson," Lady Sybil said.

"It was my pleasure, milady," he told her, pausing with the rag and tin of polish in his hands.

"Oh, I believe you," she agreed. "but I can see I'd better go."

He looked at her inquiringly.

"Well, we can't have you wasting time and car polish rewaxing the entire car, can we?" Lady Sybil smiled archly, winked at him, and started back to the house.

_ 'Is that supposed to discourage me?'_ Branson wondered. If so, the lady clearly had a lot to learn about the difference between _dis_couragement and _en_couragement. It was more than just a question of a few letters. Did she want him to pursue her, or not?


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Note: ** Our story resumes early the following morning.

**Disclaimer: ** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

Tom Branson sat at the desk in the office alcove penning a scathing letter to the correspondence page of Autocar, pointing out that it was all very well to suggest to motorcar owners that they should purchase replacement parts directly from the manufacturers rather than relying on repairmen to fabricate replacements in the repair shop, but as a practical matter, unless the current war should be ended, (and the author of the advice intended to set up a business manufacturing parts to the specifications of any and all bankrupt or defunct motorcar companies), then repairmen were going to _have _to fabricate parts if they wanted to be able to keep their customers' cars running.

"Branson?" A voice called urgently.

For a moment, the chauffeur panicked. Had he been so engrossed in his writing that he'd forgotten someone's trip? He shot to his feet and was out in the main part of the garage at a run.

It was Lady Sybil. Branson calmed down immediately. For one thing, the sight of Lady Sybil nearly always calmed him, for another, he was absolutely certain she had told him she was walking to the hospital this morning and would not want the motor.

"Oh, good," she greeted him. "I was afraid you might not be up yet." It wasn't yet seven o'clock. He wondered what time she thought he got up.

"Can I help you, milady? I thought you said you were going to walk to the hospital?"

"That was my intention, but Mama had other ideas. She kept me talking so long, if I walk now I'll be late. On my very first day!" The idea clearly distressed her.

"I'll drive you," he soothed her. "You're supposed to be there at seven?"

Lady Sybil nodded.

"We'll make it," he said. "I'll just grab my jacket." He went back into the office alcove to grab it from the back of his chair, then came back out into the main part of the garage shrugging himself into it. "Lady Grantham is awake? At this hour?" he asked as he climbed up to prime the motor, set the handbrake and turn on the ignition.

"Yes, can you believe it?" Lady Sybil told him, getting into the back seat. Branson got down and cranked the engine to life, then climbed up to the driver's bench. As they started off, Lady Sybil continued, "She woke up early with a mad plan to give me a congratulatory dinner, and couldn't wait to tell me about it… It's ridiculous."

"What is?"

"Congratulating me."

"You don't want to be congratulated, milady?"

"I haven't done anything, Branson."

"You completed your nursing course," he pointed out reasonably.

"And that's a reason for congratulations?" she asked.

"Isn't it, milady?"

"Lady Edith learned to drive, have they given her a congratulatory dinner?"

"No, they haven't," he admitted. "Would it make you feel better if they did?"

"You want me to have to sit through _two _dinners congratulating people who haven't yet done anything?"

Branson laughed. "Well, milady… how would you feel about sharing the limelight, then?"

She was curious. "What do you mean by that, Branson?"

"Well, it's funny you should mention Lady Edith not being congratulated for learning to drive…."

* * *

When the night of the dinner party rolled around, Lady Sybil was surprisingly cheerful for someone who had been opposed to the concept on principle. Lady Edith was happy for her, but also a little jealous. Why was it everything Sybil did was praiseworthy, but what she did was only… tolerated. She didn't want to be unkind to Sybil, who was always sweet… but it hurt. Well, she hadn't gone to a chauffeur school, after all… and her driving would really only help the family…and even then only if Branson were called up, which he hadn't been yet, but he eventually would be.

Miss Swire came up to her. "Lady Edith, I'm so happy to see you again." The feeling was mutual and the two motoring girls conversed happily. Miss Swire had driven down from London with a friend who had family in Leeds, then had driven over to Downton on her own to stay with Mrs. Crawley for a day or two, "because when I heard about this dinner, of course I wouldn't have missed it for the world!"

Lady Edith was perplexed. "I didn't realize you and Lady Sybil had become close."

"Lady Sybil?" Miss Swire asked. Realization dawned. Her eyes grew huge. "Oh, my goodness, you'll never trust me with any secrets now, will you? I'm so sorry. You're not angry are you?"

Lady Edith stared at her. "No, I'm not angry," she said in confusion. The London girl was immensely relieved. "Thank goodness." Fortunately, Carson chose that moment to announce dinner.

* * *

After both Mrs. Crawley and Lord Grantham made what Lady Sybil considered very silly speeches on the subject of how good it was that she had completed her training, and how much good she would now be able to do helping wounded soldiers, Lord Grantham went on to point out that Lady Sybil was not the only one of his daughters who had been undergoing training. Lady Edith had been learning to drive.

"I am very pleased to make the announcement to you all," Lord Grantham stated grandly. "Lady Edith is now Ready for the Road." The assembled company applauded. Lady Edith looked around. Her family, the guests, Miss Swire, all looked happy, and pleased for her. Lady Sybil had left the table, and returned holding a long box. She offered it to Lady Edith.

Lady Edith opened the box. Inside was a necklace composed of a round coloured medallion hung on a fairly heavy chain. The medallion bore a picture in cloisonné enamels. It was a miniature bust of a girl with red gold curls in a chauffeur's cap and goggles. She picked it up to see the obverse: an angled view of the bonnet, windshield, and driver's door of the Renault.

The assembled company applauded the beautiful gift, and Lady Edith thanked her father, but she was pretty sure she knew whose idea this had been, and his absence from the table, from the room, from even being mentioned… she did not know how she felt about it. And holding the necklace as she was, she could see what the others could not, though Papa must know: it was not a medallion at all. A brass shank protruded from the cloisonné head, and she recognized the pattern of the teeth: it was a key to the garage.


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Note:** All good things must come to an end. A hoary cliché, I freely grant you, which just goes to demonstrate its timeworn truth. ~ The most pleasant motor trip eventually ends when the destination has been reached. But we can always go home again. Tom and Edith await us at Downton. (Furthermore, Lady Edith, her sisterly love, her sharp tongue, and even her garage key are currently appearing in my prenuptial Sybil/Branson story _A Kind of Purgatory_.) ~ My deepest gratitude to all reviewers, followers, and favoriters: You can't know (unless you do) how much it helps to know someone is reading. So for everyone reading this: _a chara, tá grá agam duit_**.**

**Disclaimer:** I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

* * *

The next morning, Lady Edith went out to the garage. There was no necessity for her to use her beautiful key: the big doors were open. She could see Branson inside working, though it was still quite early. Lady Edith herself had only just left the breakfast table. Branson, a clean beige coverall over his uniform, sans jacket, was working on the Cabriolet. The bonnet was open and she watched him detach a hose from its insides, look it over minutely, then stoop down. She heard the splash of water and came closer so she could see.

A bucket of water stood at the chauffeur's feet. The chauffeur himself was hunkered down next to it. He submerged the hose to fill it with water, then pulled it out, ends carefully held up, and watched the water drip back off of it into the bucket. There wasn't much. She knew he was inspecting the hose for leaks. It pleased her that she could now tell what he was doing without the necessity of always having to ask. She sat down on the workbench to watch.

Branson kept working, but looked over at her curiously, a shy smile lighting his features. "How was the dinner party, milady?"

"It was very nice. I enjoyed it."

"Were there a lot of people there?" he probed gently.

"There were. Some neighbors, Lady Daphne, Cousin Isobel, and Granny, of course... even Miss Swire."

"Miss Swire?" he asked.

_As if he didn't know._ "Cousin Matthew's financée? I'm supposed to believe you've forgotten who she is, you fraud? Especially since she let slip why she was there."

Branson had the grace to blush, but he knew Lady Edith wasn't really angry with him, so the corners of his mouth stayed up while he emptied, dried, and reconnected the hose. He selected another, disconnected it, and started the process over. Lady Edith watched him, saying nothing else.

Branson continued to work steadily, but couldn't help sneaking occasional glances at her. Lady Edith just continued to watch him work. The second hose was fine, too. He drained it, dried it off on a cloth, reattached it, and disconnected a third. He was looking at the hose, not at her, when he finally asked, "Did he give it to you, milady?"

"Yes, he did," Lady Edith nodded. "Well, technically Sybil did."

"Do you like it?" He was pretending to look at the hose, but was really looking at her now, actually somewhat worried, she saw to her amazement.

"I love it, Branson. It's very beautiful." Lady Edith saw his relief. How could he have thought she might be angry about so lovely and thoughtful a gift?

"And it was presented to you in front of everyone?"

Lady Edith nodded. "Yes, he told everyone I was Ready for the Road, and had Lady Sybil present it to me. Everyone applauded. I felt very proud to be so appreciated."

The chauffeur smiled his pleasure at her triumph.

"Branson?"

"Yes, milady?"

"It was your idea, wasn't it?"

"Well, I-"

"What does it matter, how he told me, or when or where he gave me the key?"

The chauffeur was looking at the concrete floor.

"Tell me why you wanted the announcement to be a public event. What did it matter... to you?"

He moistened his lips, but didn't speak.

"Branson," she demanded, but her tone was very gentle, "tell me why."

"Because..." She waited but he didn't continue.

"Because?" she prompted, quietly, but she wanted to know the reason, needed to know it, in fact.

"Look at me, Branson, and tell me."

The blues eyes that met hers were full. Lady Edith watched a tear spill over onto his cheek. _Why was he crying?_ He put up a hand and wiped the tear away. He sighed. "I remembered what you said, that day, after the Hospital Benefit Concert, about your saying I had said you were ready for the road, and Lord Grantham saying I told him you weren't. That there were a lot of people there, and you were humiliated."

"That wasn't your fault, Branson. It was mine. I had no business saying that. You had never told me I was ready for the road."

"I know, but…"

"But you still you wanted to make it better?"

He nodded. "Yes, milady."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "It's what brothers do."

Lady Edith considered him thoughtfully. "Well, you did, brother. You did make it better. A lot better." She smiled at him.

Branson remembered the hose in his hands. He squatted down again and pushed it under the water. Lady Edith heard the gurgle as it filled with water.

"I was sorry you weren't there," Lady Edith continued quietly.

Branson looked over at her, pleased that she said so. "You know I couldn't be, milady."

"I know," she admitted. When he started to lift the hose from the bucket, she said, "Can you leave that and come sit for a minute?"

He nodded, left the hose in the water, dried his hands, and came to sit next to her on the workbench. They looked at each other.

"Thank you for teaching me," Lady Edith said.

Branson nodded. "You're welcome, milady...I enjoyed it." His use of her line made them both smile.

Lady Edith found she wasn't all that happy after all that she had 'graduated.' "Is it over?" she asked him.

"Yes, milady, it's over. You're Ready for the Road."

"Why do I feel so sad?"

"Because it's the end of our lessons."

"But I don't want it to be the end," she told him petulantly.

He smiled at her. "I don't either, milady, but a butterfly can't crawl back into its cocoon," he teased, gently.

"I'll miss you, Branson."

"I'm not going anywhere." He gestured at the garage around them. "I'll still be here. We'll still see each other. Even if you want to drive yourself from now on, I'll still be your mechanic. And I'll always be your friend, milady."

"If you're my friend, can't you call me 'Edith'?"

Branson shook his head.

"Not even now?"

"Especially not now, milady."

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do...We both have keys to the garage, and we're sitting here alone. A dheirfiúr, how long do you think I'd still be employed here if anyone heard me call you 'Edith'?"

"That's absurd."

"To you it is, and to me. But to other people?"

"Then they're absurd." How could anyone think he would do anything bad to her? He was completely trustworthy. Had he actually been her brother, she could not have trusted him more. But she knew he was right.

Lady Edith sighed, and rose from the workbench, which of course caused Branson to rise to his feet as well. "All right then, Branson," she told him, defeated, "I'll see you later."

"Milady," he acknowledged, formally. If she was defeated, at least he was respectful, rather than triumphant.

Lady Edith started to walk away, then turned back. "But comes the revolution, you and I will really be brother and sister, and then you _will_ call me 'Edith.'"

The chauffeur grinned at her. "Yes, milady," he agreed. "Comes the revolution, I promise I'll call you 'Edith,' and you'll call me 'Tom.'"


End file.
